Sonnet of Motherhood XXIX – Zora Bernice May Cross 

How strangely lone unto myself I grow,

Listening and looking for I know not what;

Turning my head with terror cold and hot

At wandering whispers of a music low!

Familiar pieces of my being flow

Far, far away, to thymy hill and plot,

While chained to patience in this close-shut spot

I sit apart from everything I know.
O Love, I fear the loneness of my limbs

Leaning to nothing to their solitude.

Draw up the blinds and let the stars rush in,

The mournful moon and all the air she swims.

I would not languish in my mother-mood

While just without earth makes her old, mad din.