Holy Mother of God, Merciful Mary. Hear
me! I am very weary. I have come
from a village miles away, all day I have been coming, and I ache
for such
far roaming. I cannot walk as light as I used, and my
thoughts grow confused.
I am heavier than I was. Mary Mother, you know the cause!
Beautiful Holy Lady, take my shame away from me! Let
this fear
be only seeming, let it be that I am dreaming. For months
I have hoped
it was so, now I am afraid I know. Lady, why should this
be shame,
just because I haven’t got his name. He loved me, yes,
Lady, he did,
and he couldn’t keep it hid. We meant to marry. Why
did he die?
That day when they told me he had gone down in the avalanche, and
could not
be found until the snow melted in Spring, I did nothing. I
could not cry.
Why should he die? Why should he die and his child live? His
little child
alive in me, for my comfort. No, Good God, for my misery! I
cannot face
the shame, to be a mother, and not married, and the poor child to
be reviled
for having no father. Merciful Mother, Holy Virgin, take
away this sin I did.
Let the baby not be. Only take the stigma off of me!
I have told no one but you, Holy Mary. My mother would
call me “whore”,
and spit upon me; the priest would have me repent, and have
the rest of my life spent in a convent. I am no whore,
no bad woman,
he loved me, and we were to be married. I carried him
always in my heart,
what did it matter if I gave him the least part of me too? You
were a virgin,
Holy Mother, but you had a son, you know there are times when a
woman
must give all. There is some call to give and hold back
nothing.
I swear I obeyed God then, and this child who lives in me is the
sign.
What am I saying? He is dead, my beautiful, strong man! I
shall never
feel him caress me again. This is the only baby I shall
have.
Oh, Holy Virgin, protect my baby! My little, helpless
baby!
He will look like his father, and he will be as fast a runner and
as good
a shot. Not that he shall be no scholar neither. He
shall go to school
in winter, and learn to read and write, and my father will teach
him to carve,
so that he can make the little horses, and cows, and chamois,
out of white wood. Oh, No! No! No! How
can I think such things,
I am not good. My father will have nothing to do with
my boy,
I shall be an outcast thing. Oh, Mother of our Lord God,
be merciful,
take away my shame! Let my body be as it was before he
came.
No little baby for me to keep underneath my heart for those long
months.
To live for and to get comfort from. I cannot go home
and tell my mother.
She is so hard and righteous. She never loved my father,
and we were born
for duty, not for love. I cannot face it. Holy
Mother, take my baby away!
Take away my little baby! I don’t want it, I can’t bear
it!
And I shall have nothing, nothing! Just be known as a
good girl.
Have other men want to marry me, whom I could not touch, after having
known
my man. Known the length and breadth of his beautiful
white body,
and the depth of his love, on the high Summer Alp, with the moon
above,
and the pine-needles all shiny in the light of it. He
is gone, my man,
I shall never hear him or feel him again, but I could not touch
another.
I would rather lie under the snow with my own man in my arms!
So I shall live on and on. Just a good woman. With
nothing to warm my heart
where he lay, and where he left his baby for me to care for. I
shall not be
quite human, I think. Merely a stone-dead creature. They
will respect me.
What do I care for respect! You didn’t care for people’s
tongues
when you were carrying our Lord Jesus. God had my man
give me my baby,
when He knew that He was going to take him away. His
lips will comfort me,
his hands will soothe me. All day I will work at my lace-making,
and all night I will keep him warm by my side and pray the blessed
Angels
to cover him with their wings. Dear Mother, what is it
that sings?
I hear voices singing, and lovely silver trumpets through it all. They
seem
just on the other side of the wall. Let me keep my baby,
Holy Mother.
He is only a poor lace-maker’s baby, with a stain upon him,
but give me strength to bring him up to be a man.
***
More poems by Amy Lowell
Amy Lawrence Lowell (1874 – 1925) was an American poetess that belonged to the informal imagist, an early modernist movement, which promoted a return to classical values. She posthumously won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1926.