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Arthur Henry Adams 1872 (Lawrence) – 1936 (Sydney, New South Wales)

PEACE, your little child is dead:
 Peace, I cannot weep with you;
 I have no more tears to shed;
 I have mourned my baby too—
 I, that ne'er was wooed or wed.
  Love has looked within your eyes,
 Love has filled your hungry heart;
 You have borne the babe, your prize;
 You have blossomed, done your part,
 Though the flower faded lies.
  But to me was love denied—
 God had said it might not be;
 Still my hungry hopes abide;
 All the motherhood in me
 Aches—and starves, unsatisfied.
  How my soul has yearned for thee,
 Sweet, sweet unborn child of mine!
 How thy life would tenderly
 Round thy mother's life entwine—
 Hope of hopes that may not be.
  How thy hands would pluck my breast!
 I have felt them o'er and o'er,
 And thy soft, sweet skin caressed,
 Baby mine I never bore!
 Did I dream so?—dreams are best.
  You have nothing now to fear,
 Mother; you have fondled him,
 Held his pretty face so near,
 Laid your lips to each soft limb—
 He is dead, but he was dear.
  You have something you may mourn,
 Some sweet memory to kiss;
 I am lonelier, more forlorn;
 God has left me only this—
 My sweet babe that was not born.

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Submitted on May 13, 2011

1:04 min read

Arthur Henry Adams

Arthur Henry Adams was a journalist and author. He started his career in New Zealand, though he spent most of it in Australia, and for a short time lived in China and London.  more…

All Arthur Henry Adams poems | Arthur Henry Adams Books

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    "Lament" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2021. Web. 18 Sep. 2021. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/3832/lament>.

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