THE willows whisper very, very low <br />Unto the listening breeze; <br />Sometimes they lose a leaf which, flickering slow, <br />Faints on the sunburnt leas. <br /> <br />Beneath the whispering boughs and simmering skies, <br />On the hot ground at rest, <br />Still as a stone, a ragged woman lies, <br />Her baby at the breast. <br /> <br />Nibbling around her browse monotonous sheep, <br />Flies buzz about her head; <br />Her heavy eyes are shuttered by a sleep <br />As of the slumbering dead. <br /> <br />The happy birds that live to love and sing, <br />Flitting from bough to bough, <br />Peer softly at this ghastly human thing <br />With grizzled hair and brow. <br /> <br />O'er what strange ways may not these feet have trod <br />That match the cracking clay? <br />Man had no pity on her--no, nor God-- <br />A nameless castaway! <br /> <br />But Mother Earth now hugs her to her breast, <br />Defiled or undefiled; <br />And willows rock the weary soul to rest, <br />As she, even she, her child.<br /><br />Mathilde Blind<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/noonday-rest/
