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/ THE DOOM OF THE WEAK
Gaunt mother, the spring is not yet come, When grasses wave 'neath wild plum bloom;
When Nature smiles upon the range, Forgetful of the days of doom.
And that pathetic, awkward calf, Of all that lives to you most dear,
Cannot long lean upon your strength, Or feel your presence warm and near.
The gray wolf's famished and his jaws Hang slavering with mad desire,
Yet still your bold and dauntless front, His caution and his fear inspire.
No fear of self, you rise supreme To all that's true, to all that's good
In Nature's realm, since none surpass The sacrifice of motherhood.
You lurch, and then the wolf's quick leap, The blood's red gush upon the snow—
And one last effort to protect
The offspring that you cherished so.
In vain you strive to reach, protect, Defender bold and mother meek;
Yours is the doom all merciless— The age-old doom of all the weak.