. . . but the Child Was Born Dead

This was something she could bear

as bravely as a queen,

as mutely as a tree when snows

upon its branches lean.

This was grief a woman knows

is native to her kind,

a hard, familiar stone to hold

when hand knows more than mind.

Here, if she were wise enough,

was music in a shell;

were colors of a winter tide;

the sanctus of a bell.

Structure

12 lines · 3 stanzas