Mother and Poet

I.

Dead ! One of them shot by the sea in the east,

And one of them shot in the west by the sea.

Dead ! both my boys ! When you sit at the feast

And are wanting a great song for Italy free,

Let none look at me !

II.

Yet I was a poetess only last year,

And good at my art, for a woman, men said ;

But this woman, this, who is agonized here,

-- The east sea and west sea rhyme on in her head

For ever instead.

III.

What art can a woman be good at ? Oh, vain !

What art is she good at, but hurting her breast

With the milk-teeth of babes, and a smile at the pain ?

Ah boys, how you hurt ! you were strong as you pressed,

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(＞人＜；)