MOTHER MINDBy Julia Ward HoweI never made a poem, dear friend—I never sat me down, and said,This cunning brain and patient handShall fashion something to be read.

Men often came to me, and prayedI should indite a fitting verseFor fast, or festival, or inSome stately pageant to rehearse.

(As if, than Balaam more endowed,I of myself could bless or curse.

)Reluctantly I bade them go,Ungladdened by my poet-mite;My heart is not so churlish butIts loves to minister delight.

But not a word I breathe is mineTo sing, in praise of man or God;My Master calls, at noon or night,I know his whisper and his nod.

Yet all my thoyghts to rhythms run,To rhyme, my wisdom and my wit?

True, I consume my life in verse,But wouldst thou know how that is writ?

’T is thus—through weary length of days,I bear a thought within my breastThat greatens from my growth of soul,And waits, and will not be expressed.

It greatens, till its hour has come,Not without pain, it sees the light;’Twixt smiles and tears I view it o’er,And dare not deem it perfect, quite.

These children of my soul I keepWhere scarce a mortal man may see,Yet not unconsecrate, dear friend,Baptismal rites they claim of thee.

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