Bom of my spirit, still mine in loss or merit,
Child of my body, and fondling of my heart,
What wilt thou render me of whom did’st inherit,
Wide the way or narrow, where life sets thy part?
From the void I brought thee, in the darkness carried.
Blind mouth I nourished, and formless that I formed;
Dreamed of thee, hoped for thee through what changes tarried,
Curtained thee with calm though tempest round me stormed.
Thou whom from night I brought to wake at morning,
Drawn out of chaos to fullness of estate,
Thou for whom I suffered, all my weakness scorning,
How wilt thou answer, when life trumpets at thy gate?
From the first forefathers brought I bone to make thee,
Brought thee steadfast pulses, shaped thee slim and tall;
Brought thee from the fathers fire to wake and shake thee,
When toward strange horizons power within should call;
Brought thee by my suffering, brought thee by my longing,
Twice ten thousand rhythms tuned to life’s appeal;
I, the string high-tensioned to vibrations thronging,
Set and marked them on thy being as my seal!
I, the cup that held thee, leaned above thee, hearing
All the moaning forest crying in the night;
Heard the winds wide raging, saw the lightning, searing,
Smite upon the shuddering lid of hidden sight;
Heard the long roll where the valley of the thunder
Shaken moved beneath the shout of heaven’s might,
Gazed upon the stars, and, trembling at their wonder,
Knew the sudden thought that flies beyond all sight;
Watched in ecstasy where like a child’s sweet smiling
Gleamed the new-cut silver of the threaded moon,
Marked, in gentled darkness, star by star come filing—
Planetary verse of an eternal rune!
Aye, and long ere thou beneath my heart cam’st moving,
Gathered I an unthought harvest for thy sake;
Bent my head to swift obedience in behooving
Ere the high tide of my being turned to wake.
All my heritage-—thou still unknown— I brought thee;
On the altar of my heart I laid it down;
I only held as thine until I rose and sought thee,
By mine ancient birthright of the woman’s crown.
Now what yield is mine of all my beaten harvest,
Thorns that I have watered, sheaves that I have bound?
This, that where shalt ride, or in what hunger starvest,
Some grain saved from out my gathering shall be found.
Ah, and more is mine! for, in thy blood immortal,
I being dead cease not though seeming I am gone;
Lo, my life is but the step, and thine the portal
Through which to ends far set I follow on.
(Dame Mary Gilmore DBE)
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Based on Topics: Life Poems, Night Poems, Heaven Poems, Sense & Perception Poems, Morning Poems, Woman Poems, Fathers Poems, Anger Poems, Eternity Poems, Body Poems, Curiosity PoemsBased on Keywords: planetary, unthought, fondling, new-cut, unknown-, gentled, bom, heritage-, starvest, behooving