The Mother

'Ho! 'said the child, 'how fine the horses go, With nodding plumes, with measured step and slow Who rides within this coach, is he not great? Some King, I think, for see, he rides in state!' I turned, and saw a little coffin lie Half-hid in flowers as the slow steeds went by, So small a woman's arms might hold it pressed As some rare jewel-casket to her breast; Or like Pandora's box with pulsing lid Where throbbing thoughts must lie for ever hid. 'Why this? why this?' comes forth the panting breath, 'And was I born to taste of nought save death?' 'Ho!' said the child, 'how the proud horses shake Their silver harness till they music make. Who drives abroad with all this majesty? Is it some Prince who fain his world would see?' And as I looked I saw through the dim glass Of one sad coach that all so slow did pass A woman's face—a mother's eyes ablaze Seize on the child in fierce and famished gaze. 'Death drives,' I said, and drew him in alarm Within the shelter of my circling arm. So in my heart cried out a thousand fears, 'A King goes past.' He wondered at my tears.