The Mother

Here where the rooms are dryly still Who is this dustily asleep While juicy children run the field? Where is her ever deepening well Whose buckets to a fullness dip For needs compassion must fulfill? Like freshets they themselves may yield A little to the turned up cup, But death is in the long dry spell. Run children, run, the light grows dull, And she who keeps the well must sleep, And rain is unpredictable. December 1951