by Helen Hunt Jackson
A veiled priestess, in a holy place,
Day pauseth on her threshold, beckoning;
As infants to the mother's bosom spring
At sound of mother's voice, although her face
Be hid, I leap with sudden joy. No trace
Of fear I feel; I take her hand and fling
Her arm around my neck, and walk and cling
Close to her side. She chooses road and pace;
I feast along the way on her shewbread;
I help an hour or two on her great task
Beyond this honoring, no wage I ask.
Then, ere I know, sweet night slips in her stead,
And, while by sunset fires I rest and bask,
Warm to her faithful breast she folds my head.
Roberts Brothers, Boston