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Updated: May 8, 2025
"Woman, where is my father?" freezing through me, Lisped the mute innocence with thunder-sound; "Woman, where is thy husband?" called unto me, In every look, word, whisper, busying round! Alas, for thee, there is no father's kiss; He fondleth other children on his knee. How thou wilt curse our momentary bliss, When bastard on thy name shall branded be!
The child that presseth its lips to her breast and fondleth her cheek, doth the mother love. So also doth she love the man that the child groweth into. And though he be hanged on the highest tree of Calvary, will she stand by and cover the hisses of the rabble with her sobs, for she doth love him though he is no longer at her breast.
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