Wallace B. Collins
A Mother's Child
A limp flutter, a twist, a turn,
A violent force, her last outburst.
Heaving, writhing, a life emerge.
A trickle of energy, a freed Intern,
The domain of pain, earned;
Gasps for the new air, cries for the new world,
Looks, stares, unseen the waste--A tragedy!
Now flagged from screams and groans she lulls:
Its little heart must grow with love!