Childless

The Son thou sentest forth is now a Thought- A Dream. To all but thee he is as nought As if he had gone back into the same Bosom that bare him. Oh, thou grey pale Dame, With eyes so wan and wide, what! knowest thou where Thy Dream is such a thing as doth up-bear The earth out of its wormy place? I' the air Dost see the very fashion of the stone That hath his face for clay? Deep, deep, hast found The texture of that single weight of ground Which to each mole and mark that thou hast known Is special burden? Nay, her face is mild And sweet. In Heaven the evening star is fair, And there the mother looketh for her child.