In the scheme of life, what have you proven—

Your babe lies swaddled in a stranger’s arms;

What portion of your love is he now given;

Who weighs the worth of your maternal charms?

Each day you toil, that child, bereft of breast

Is bent in purpose by another’s mind;

His rote routines now formed of her behest

So that he follows all her codes in mime.

His changing face, his smiles, yea his first words

Do now attend indifferent eyes and ears—

While late in evenings you return from work

Too tired to play yet mock him with mute tears.

Unquestioned virtue, now vile Mammon’s slave;

And hands that rocked sweet cradles now dig graves.