So—am I spent? Can I bring no more to birth?
Worn and weary with bearing to your begetting
My face is furrowed and scarred and my breasts are dearth—
Barren, dry, and only fit for forgetting.

Of all that my body bore ye have left me none;
None ye laid on my breast that I might hold them—
(Yea, and me, too, have ye sold to each passing one!)
Year by year ye snatched them away and sold them.

The little lives! They were mine when they were weak,
Stirring beneath my heart that gave them cover.
But ye tore them all from my arms; now my head is bleak
And my bosom shrinks in the snow. Go to your lover!

Is she young, this bride of your age?
Is she strong and fair
To cherish you as the Shunamite? Yet after.
Her heart is wild and her blood is hot—have care
Lest her new-found smile but turn to a harlot's laughter!