AS some poor Indian woman A captive child receives, And warms it in her bosom, And o'er its weeping grieves; And comforts it with kisses, And strives to understand Its eager, lonely babble, Fondling the little hand, -- So Earth, our foster-mother, Yearns for us, with her great Wild heart, and croons in murmurs Low, inarticulate. She knows we are white captives, Her dusky race above, But the deep, childless bosom Throbs with its brooding love. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE PROBLEM by RALPH WALDO EMERSON I SAW THREE SHIPS by MOTHER GOOSE INVITED GUESTS by FRANCES EKIN ALLISON EMBLEMS OF LOVE: 34. TRUE LOVE KNOWS BUT ONE by PHILIP AYRES THREE by LOUISA SARAH BEVINGTON TO ROBERT BURNS; AN EPISTLE ON INSTINCT by ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES |