The Mother’s Tragedy

THE MOTHER'S TRAGEDY The trifles that shall make it master yet Of the strong soul that bade itself forget. CORA. Let me not shrink! Truth always purifies. I will go through those twe impossible Actual years. The city was itself; Hard thinking if hard drinking—sober-sides! One night I stepped up tremulous on the stage, Sang something, found my senses afterward Only to that intolerable sound Of terrible applause. They shook the sky With calling me to answer. And J lay— A storm of weeping swept across my frame— Till the polite, the hateful manager Led me to face a nation’s lunatic Roar of delight. I soon got over that, And over—yes, the other thing. Three months— They used to quote me on the Stock Exchange! I will say this to me, I will not shrink: Look up, you coward, Cora Vavasour! Which fathered me the bastard? Every rag, Prurient licksores of society, Gave it a different father. Am I sure Myself? The shameful Mammon was his name, Glittering gold! I loved my opulence, Cursed my “misfortune.” Childbirth sobered me. I loved the child, the only human love I ever tasted, and I sacrificed The popularity, the infamy,