POETRY.
PARENTHOOD.
THESE are the years our God
Laps down, and nothing loth, His sceptre and His rod As He were tired of both. Bids men and women take His empire for a while, To ban, to bless, to make The children weep or smile.
All power be yours, He saith- Over My little ones : The power of life and death, The power of clouds and suns. The power of weal and harm Be yours to have and hold : In you they shall go warm, In you be pinched with cold.
Just for these God-like years Ye shall not know th' intense Pang beyond prayers and tears Of your love's impotence. Be yours to make, to mar, This lovely thing I wrought, With love brought from afar, And My eternal thought. This fashioned I of joy, Much hope, without a stain, Pure gold without alloy Redeemed in mine own pain. For this the wine-press trod, Red-sanguined to the knee. Afterwards—saith our God— Ye will account to Me.
For every needless tear,
For all the smiles unsmiled, For lonely wrong and fear.
Brought on any little child, Myself will exact the fee, A God of wrath and scorn t Better that day that 'ye Were dead ere ye were born.
Contrariwise—His wrath
Our Lord God put away— Your watchful love till death I will repay, repay.
Lord-of the skies and lands
Take pity on Thy dust, Strengthen our mortal hands Lest we betray Thy trust !
KATHARINE TYNAN.
Previous page
