I never made a poem, dear friend-- <br /> I never sat me down, and said, <br /> This cunning brain and patient hand <br /> Shall fashion something to be read. <br /> Men often came to me, and prayed <br /> I should indite a fitting verse <br /> For fast, or festival, or in <br /> Some stately pageant to rehearse. <br /> (As if, than Balaam more endowed, <br /> I of myself could bless or curse.) <br /> <br /> Reluctantly I bade them go, <br /> Ungladdened by my poet-mite; <br /> My heart is not so churlish but <br /> Its loves to minister delight. <br /> <br /> But not a word I breathe is mine <br /> To sing, in praise of man or God; <br /> My Master calls, at noon or night, <br /> I know his whisper and his nod. <br /> <br /> Yet all my thoyghts to rhythms run, <br /> To rhyme, my wisdom and my wit? <br /> True, I consume my life in verse, <br /> But wouldst thou know how that is writ? <br /> <br /> 'T is thus--through weary length of days, <br /> I bear a thought within my breast <br /> That greatens from my growth of soul, <br /> And waits, and will not be expressed. <br /> <br /> It greatens, till its hour has come, <br /> Not without pain, it sees the light; <br /> 'Twixt smiles and tears I view it o'er, <br /> And dare not deem it perfect, quite. <br /> <br /> These children of my soul I keep <br /> Where scarce a mortal man may see, <br /> Yet not unconsecrate, dear friend, <br /> Baptismal rites they claim of thee.<br /><br />Julia Ward Howe<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/mother-mind/
