Florence Wilkinson

I SHALL tell thee some day, thou little wild god,

Of the pains I suffered for thee.

Thou wilt laugh a great laugh of diviner knowledge,

And sweep me up high beside thee.

Then I shall forget the dark travail-pains,

The blood-crimsoned trail, the lair, the long rains,

Up there in the light beside thee.

No longer a sullen beast-mother, I,

With suspicious furred ears and a fierce agate eye,

But winged and mighty like thee.