And desolate, for ever you will stay,

Motherless children! And I go my way

To other lands, an exile, ere you bring

Your fruits home, ere I see you prospering

Or know your brides, or deck the bridal bed,

All flowers, and lift your torches overhead.

Oh, cursèd be mine own hard heart! ’Twas all

In vain, then, that I reared you up, so tall

And fair; in vain I bore you, and was torn

With those long pitiless pains, when you were born.

Ah, wondrous hopes my poor heart had in you,

How you would tend me in mine age, and do

The shroud about me with your own dear hands,

When I lay cold, blessèd in all the lands

That knew us. And that gentle thought is dead!

You go, and I live on, to eat the bread

Of long years, to myself most full of pain.

And never your dear eyes, never again,

Shall see your mother, far away being thrown

To other shapes of life… My babes, my own,

Why gaze ye so?—What is it that ye see?—

And laugh with that last laughter?… Woe is me,

What shall I do?

Women, my strength is gone,

Gone like a dream, since once I looked upon

Those shining faces… I can do it not.

Good-bye to all the thoughts that burned so hot

Aforetime! I will take and hide them far,

Far, from men’s eyes. Why should I seek a war

So blind: by these babes’ wounds to sting again

Their father’s heart, and win myself a pain

Twice deeper? Never, never! I forget

Henceforward all I laboured for.

And yet,

What is it with me? Would I be a thing

Mocked at, and leave mine enemies to sting

Unsmitten? It must be. O coward heart,

Ever to harbour such soft words!—Depart

Out of my sight, ye twain.                            [The CHILDREN go in.]

And they whose eyes

Shall hold it sin to share my sacrifice,

On their heads be it! My hand shall swerve not now.

Ah, Ah, thou Wrath within me! Do not thou,

Do not… Down, down, thou tortured thing, and spare

My children! They will dwell with us, aye, there

Far off, and give thee peace.

Too late, too late!

By all Hell’s living agonies of hate,

They shall not take my little ones alive

To make their mock with! Howsoe’er I strive

The thing is doomed; it shall not escape now

From being. Aye, the crown is on the brow,

And the robe girt, and in the robe that high

Queen dying.

I know all. Yet… seeing that I

Must go so long a journey, and these twain

A longer yet and darker, I would fain

Speak with them, ere I go.

[A handmaid brings the CHILDREN out again.]

Come, children; stand

A little from me. There. Reach out your hand,

your right hand—so—to mother: and good-bye!