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A MOTHER'S CRY TO HER KIND

At a hovel window hot and bare,A baby on her breast,And hungry others fretting the airThat fetid scents obsessed,A mother bitter and bent with wantStared at a squalid street,And said to herself—and to her kind—With sickening repeat:
"Don't ever have a child,If you are married poor.Don't ever have a little childAnd make your misery sure.For two will come, and three, and four,To eat one crust of bread:

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