She
is a mother pale with fear,
Her
boy clings to her side,
And
in her kyrtle vainly tries
His
trembling form to hide.
He
is not hers, although she bore
For
him a mother’s pains;
He
is not hers, although her blood
Is
coursing through his veins!
He
is not hers, for cruel hands
May
rudely tear apart
The
only wreath of household love
That
binds her breaking heart.
Poem excerpt from “The
Slave Mother” By Frances Ellen Watkins Harper