Sonnet of Motherhood XXXI – Zora Bernice May Cross

Beloved, I who shall be mother soon 

Need mothering myself this tired hour,

As heavily the sweet and precious power

Weighs on my heart till I am near to swoon.

Console me, soothe me, Dearest, with the boon

Of your firm strength, and little comforts shower

Soft on the drifting doubtings that devour

Patience and courage when the death-winds croon.
You are your mother, Dear, as I am mine.

And, as we slumber to our souls’ caress,

Those two who panged for us and weeping smiled,

Draw near and bind us in a peace divine.

O mother me; all else is comfortless

As painted lips above a dying child. 

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