mortal mother-bird outsoars her nest, The child outgrows the breast; But suns as stars shall fall from heaven and cease, Ere we twain be as these; Yea, utmost skies forget their utmost sun, Ere we twain be not one. My lesser jewels sewn on skirt and hem, I have no heed of them Obscured and flawed by sloth or craft or power; But thou, that wast my flower, The blossom bound between my brows and worn In sight of even and morn From the last ember of the flameless west To the dawn's baring breast—      I were not Freedom if thou wert not free, Nor thou wert Italy. O mystic rose ingrained with blood, impearled With tears of all the world! The torpor of their blind brute-ridden trance Kills England and chills France; And Spain sobs hard through strangling blood; and snows Hide the huge eastern woes. But thou, twin-born with morning, nursed of noon, And blessed of star and moon! What shall avail to assail thee any more, From sacred shore to shore? Have Time and Love not knelt down at thy feet, Thy sore, thy soiled, thy sweet, Fresh from the flints and mire of murderous ways And dust of travelling days? Hath Time not kissed them, Love not washed them fair, And wiped with tears and hair? Though God forget thee, I will not forget; Though heaven and earth be set Against thee, O unconquerable child, Abused, abased, reviled, Lift thou not less from no funereal bed Thine undishonoured head; Love thou not less, by lips of thine once prest, This my now barren breast; Seek thou not less, being well assured thereof, O child, my latest love. For now the barren bosom shall bear fruit, Songs leap from lips long mute, And with my milk the mouths of nations fed Again be glad and red That were worn white with hunger and sorrow and thirst; And thou, most fair and first, Thou whose warm hands and sweet live lips I feel Upon me for a seal, Thou whose least looks, whose smiles and little sighs, Whose passionate pure eyes, Whose dear fair limbs that neither bonds could bruise Nor hate of men misuse, Whose flower-like breath and bosom, O my child, O mine and undefiled, Fill with such tears as burn like bitter wine These mother's eyes of mine, Thrill with huge passions and primeval pains The fullness of my veins, O sweetest head seen higher than any stands, I touch thee with mine hands, I lay my lips upon thee, O thou most sweet, To lift thee on thy feet And with the fire of mine to fill thine eyes;      

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