HABET ILLA IN ALVO

No longer is she light of tread,
With heavy step she onward goes
Unto His height of glory dread,
And with her prayer her vision sews…

Within her eyes there dwells but wait
For that unknown appointed day,
When, burdened by the world’s full weight,
She shall step past the destined way;

Wherein salvation is decreed…
And calm, untroubled, shall his gaze
Allay the fear of birth and need,
Asleep in woman’s tender place.

For now, with timid hand, she still
Doth soothe her husband—yet the hour
Shall come when, restless to fulfil,
She soothes her child by given power.

Alone beside her heart’s deep beat,
Beneath the hollow of her own,
She feels already, hidden, sweet,
The stirring life in depths unknown…

From kisses she grows faint and warm,
And in his love awaits the sign,
When at her breast, in caring form,
She warms the one to her inclined…

…That day there yet was hope confessed…
That day all waited but for this:—
Through slender beam of garment pressed
To hear the beating heart of his.

That day the night fell sudden, stark,
And cut the thread by Parca’s hand…
A prayer rang out from lips gone dark:
“Grant life, O Lord, by Thy command

To him, O Lord Almighty, give!
O Mother of the Word, incline!
Look down from Heaven—let him live!”
—But hollow was the sole reply…

The hour had come. The pains arose.
But what remains?—to hasten birth
Of lifeless hands that never close,
Nor shall they reach again to earth…

…Alone she sits beside the bed,
Her knees drawn close within her hold,
That moment summing all hopes dead—
Alone… with self… undone… and cold…