The Virgin Martyr
Every wild she-bird has nest and mate in the warm April weather,
But a captive woman, made for love, no mate, no nest, has she.
In the spring of young desire, young men and maids are wed together.
And the happy mothers flaunt their bliss for all the world to see.
Nature’s sacramental feast for them—an empty board for me.
I, a young maid once, an old maid now, deposed, despised, forgotten—
I, like them, have thrilled with passion and have dreamed of a nuptial rest,
Of the trembling life within me, of my children unbegotten,
Of a breathing new-born body to my yearning bosom prest,
Of the rapture of a little soft mouth drinking at my breast.
Time, that heals so many sorrows, keeps mine ever freshly aching.
Though my face is growing furrowed and my brown hair turning white,
Still I mourn my irremedial loss, asleep or awaking;
Still I hear my son’s voice calling “Mother” in the dead of night,
And am haunted by my girl’s eyes that will never see the light.
O my children that I might have had! My children lost forever!
O the goodly years that might have been, now desolate and bare!
O God, what have I lacked, what have I done, that I should never
Take my birthright like the others, take the crown that women wear,
And possess the common heritage to which all flesh is heir?
—Ada Cambridge.
In The Hollow Of God’s Hand
At the heart of the cyclone tearing the sky
And flinging the clouds and towers by
Is a place of central calm:
So here in the roar of mortal things,
I have a place where my spirit sings,
In the hollow of God’s Palm.
—Edwin Markham.
Alternate Reading: Romans 14:1-11.