By George Sterling
In woman's dark and tedious war with Fate, Abide three comrades for her spirit mild: The mother, and the sweetheart, and the child. Seldom the love maternal turns to hate, The child's well nigh as seldom; but the mate Stands oft with forces passionate and wild, Not always to renouncement reconciled; Not always loyal and compassionate. All of a mother's love I cannot give, Yet somewhat of thy child I fain would be, And as thy faithful lover always live, Be thou my star, and I will seek thy rays! Grant thou my heart a service but to thee, Thro' nights of rapture and achieving days!