Whose child is this they bring

   Into the aisle?—

At so superb a thing

The congregation smile

And turn their heads awhile.

Its eyes are blue and bright,

   Its cheeks like rose;

Its simple robes unite

Whitest of calicoes

With lawn, and satin bows.

A pride in the human race

   At this paragon

Of mortals, lights each face

While the old rite goes on;

But ah, they are shocked anon.

What girl is she who peeps

   From the gallery stair,

Smiles palely, redly weeps,

With feverish furtive air

As though not fitly there?

“I am the baby’s mother;

   This gem of the race

The decent fain would smother,

And for my deep disgrace

I am bidden to leave the place.”

“Where is the baby’s father?”—

   “In the woods afar.

He says there is none he’d rather

Meet under moon or star

Than me, of all that are.

“To clasp me in lovelike weather,

   Wish fixing when,

He says: To be together

At will, just now and then,

Makes him the blest of men;

“But chained and doomed for life

   To slovening

As vulgar man and wife,

He says, is another thing:

Yea: sweet Love’s sepulchring!”

1904.