By the Babe Unborn If trees were tall and grasses short, As in some crazy tale, If here and there a sea were blue Beyond the breaking pale, If a fixed fire hung in the air To warm me one day through, If deep green hair grew on great hills, I know what I should do. In dark I lie; dreaming that there Are great eyes cold or kind, And twisted streets and silent doors, And living men behind. Let storm clouds come: better an hour, And leave to weep and fight, Than all the ages I have ruled The empires of the night. I think that if they gave me leave Within the world to stand, I would be good through all the day I spent in fairyland. They should not hear a word from me Of selfishness or scorn, If only I could find the door, If only I were born.
I was prompted to post this by the moving poem just published by Richard Collins, and written by his brother.
I think a collection of pro-life poems on the web would be a great undertaking (if it has not already been undertaken)...