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 understandIts eager, lonely babble, Fondling the little hand,—
So Earth, our foster-mother, Yearns for us, with her greatWild 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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