All at once I saw A way to save my darling from myself And make atonement for my grudging love! Under the sycamores and up the hill And down across the river, the wet road Went stretching cityward, silvered in the moon. I who had shrunk from sacrifice, even I, Who had refused God's blessing for my boy, Would take him in my arms and carry him Up to the altar of the miracle. I would not wait for daylight, nor the help Of any human friendship; I alone, Through the still miles of country, I alone, Only my arms to shield him and my feet To bear him: he should have no one to thank But me for that. I knew the way was long, But knew strength would be given. So I came. Soon the stars failed; the late moon faded too: I think my heart had sucked their beams from them To build more blue amid the murky night Its own miraculous day. From creeks and fields The fog climbed slowly, blotted out the road; And hid the signposts telling of the town; After a while rain fell, with sleet and snow. What did I care? Baby was snug and dry. Some day, when I was telling him of this, He would but hug me closer, hearing how The night conspired against us. Better hard Than easy, then: I almost felt regret My body was so capable and strong To do its errand. Honeyed drop by drop, The ghostly jealousy, loosening at my breast, Distilled into a dew of quiet tears And fell with splash of music in the wells And on the hidden rivers of my soul. The hardest part was coming through the town. The country, even when it hindered most, Seemed conscious of the thing I went to find. The rocks and bushes looming through the mist Questioned and acquiesced and understood; The trees and streams believed; the wind and rain, Even they, for all their temper, had some words Of faith and comfort. But the glaring streets, The dizzy traffic, the piled merchandise, The giant buildings swarming with fierce life-- Cared nothing for me. They had never heard Of me nor of my business. When I asked My way, a shade of pity or contempt Showed through men's kindness--for they all were kind. Daunted and chilled and very sick at heart, I walked the endless pavements. But at last The streets grew quieter; the houses seemed As if they might be homes where people lived; Then came the factories and cottages, And all was well again. Much more than well, For many sick and broken went my way, Alone or helped along by loving hands; And from a thousand eyes the famished hope Looked out at mine--wild, patient, querulous, But always hope and hope, a thousand tongues Speaking one word in many languages.