THE WELL-BORN

So many people — people — in the world;

So few great souls, love ordered, well begun,

In answer to the fertile mother need!

So few who seem

The image of the Maker's mortal dream;

So many born of mere propinquity -

Of lustful habit, or of accident.

Their mothers felt

No mighty, all-compelling wish to see

Their bosoms garden-places

Abloom with flower faces;

No tidal wave swept o'er them with its flood;

No thrill of flesh or heart; no leap of blood;

No glowing fire, flaming to white desire

For mating and for motherhood:

Yet they bore children.

God! how mankind misuses Thy command,

To populate the earth!

How low is brought high birth!

How low the woman; when, inert as spawn

Left on the sands to fertilise,

She is the means through which the race goes on!

Not so the first intent.

Birth, as the Supreme Mind conceived it, meant

The clear imperious call of mate to mate

And the clear answer. Only thus and then

Are fine, well-ordered, and potential lives

Brought into being. Not by Church or State

Can birth be made legitimate,

Unless

Love in its fulness bless.

Creation so ordains its lofty laws

That man, while greater in all other things,

Is lesser in the generative cause.

The father may be merely man, the male;

Yet more than female must the mother be.

The woman who would fashion

Souls, for the use of earth and angels meet,

Must entertain a high and holy passion.

Not rank, or wealth, or influence of kings

Can give a soul its dower

Of majesty and power,

Unless the mother brings

Great love to that great hour.