The Harlot’S Wakening

Ere dawn a spirit took my hand, And once again, a joyous child, I roamed an unforgotten land Of orchards fresh and mild.

How fair the apple-blossoms were! How cool the long-delaying breeze! Where, half-asleep, I heard the stir And hum of happy bees.

Clear in the meadow ran the brook, From pool to pool, in liquid grace, A glass o’er which I bent to look At my enmirrored face--

A girlish face, with placid brow All-innocent of care and hate,-- With eyes I cannot fathom now And lips undesecrate.

My sister’s laugh, my brother’s call-- So would the morning larks rejoice! But nearer, dearer far than all, I heard my mother’s voice.

Her voice? Or did a music break Across the street’s harsh sea Whose thunder deepens? Christ! I wake To miserable me!