Poems (Sill)/The Foster-Mother

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THE FOSTER-MOTHER.
AS some poor Indian woman
 A captive child receives,
And warms it in her bosom,
 And o'er its weeping grieves;

And comforts it with kisses,
 And strives to understand
Its eager, lonely babble,
 Fondling the little hand,—

So Earth, our foster-mother,
 Yearns for us, with her great
Wild heart, and croons in murmurs
 Low, inarticulate.

She knows we are white captives,
 Her dusky race above,
But the deep, childless bosom
 Throbs with its brooding love.

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