WOMAN, whose lot hath alway been to bear
Love's load beneath the heart, set there to hold
It high, and keep it resolute and bold
To clasp God's feet, and hang on to the fair
Wide skirts of light—thy sealèd sense can spare
The open vision, thou being called to fold
From time's mischance, and from the season's cold,
The wonder in thy breast, and nurse it there.

What though thy travail hath been long and sore,
Love being borne in so great heaviness,
Through loss and labour, joy shall be the more
Of love that, living, shall the nations bless:
Love that shall set man's bounden spirit free,
The 'Holy Thing' that still is born of thee.