MOTHER AND POET

TURIN, AFTER NEWS FROM GAETA, 1861
 

1

Dead! One of them shot by the sea in the east,
 And one of them shot in the west by the sea.
Dead! both my boys! When you sit at the feast
 And are wanting a great song for Italy free,
  Let none look at me!
 

2

Yet I was a poetess only last year,
 And good at my art, for a woman, men said;
But this woman, this, who is agonised here,
  — The east sea and west sea rhyme on in her head
  For ever instead.
 

3

What art can a woman be good at? Oh, vain!
 What art is she good at, but hurting her breast
With the milk-teeth of babes, and a smile at the pain?
 Ah, boys, how you hurt! you were strong as you pressed,
  And I proud, by that test.
 

4

What art's for a woman? To hold on her knees
 Both darlings! to feel all their arms round her throat,
Cling, strangle a little! to sew by degrees
 And 'broider the long-clothes and neat little coat;
  To dream and to doat.
 

5

To teach them… It stings there! I made them indeed
 Speak plain the word country. I taught them, no doubt,
That a country's a thing men should die for at need.
 I prated of liberty, rights, and about
  The tyrant cast out.
[…]

                                                            (1861)

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