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DEDICATED TO EXPECTANT MOTHERS
(ROSSINI'S LA DANZA IS PLAYING)
THE MOTHER
BY NETTIE PALMER
IN the sorrow and the terror of the nations,
In a world shaken through by lamentations,
Shall I dare know happiness
That I stitch a baby�s dress?
So: for I shall be a mother with the mothers,
I shall know the mother�s anguish like the others,
Present joy must surely start
For the life beneath my heart.
Gods and men, ye know a woman�s glad unreason,
How she cannot bend and weep but in her season,
Let my hours with rapture glow
As the seams and stitches grow.
And I cannot hear the word of fire and slaughter;
Do men die? Then live, my child, my son, my daughter!
Into realms of pain I bring
You for joy�s own offering.
THE PLAYER QUEEN
BY W.B. YEATS (1865-1939)
MY mother dandled me and sang,
�How young it is, how young!�
And made a golden cradle
That on a willow swung.
�He went away,� my mother sang,
�When I was brought to bed,�
And all the while her needle pulled
The gold and silver thread.
She pulled the thread and bit the thread
And made a golden gown,
And wept because she had dreamt that I
Was born to wear a crown.
�When she was got,� my mother sang,
�I heard a sea-mew cry,
And saw a flake of the yellow foam
That dropped upon my thigh.�
How therefore could she help but braid
The gold into my hair,
And dream that I should carry
The golden top of care?

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