Up North
Into Thy hands let me fall, O Lord, Not into the hands of men, And she thinned the ranks of the savage horde Till they shrank to the mangrove fen. In a rudderless boat, with a scanty store Of food for the fated three, With her babe and her stricken servitor She fled to the open sea. Oh, days of dolor and nights of drouth, While she watched for a sail in vain, Or the tawny tinge of a river mouth, Or the rush of the tropic rain. The valiant woman! Her feeble oar Sufficed, and her fervent prayer Was heard, though she reached but a barren shore, And died with her darling there. For the demons of murder and foul disgrace On her hearthstone dared not light; But the Angel of Womanhood held the place, And its site is a holy site.
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"Into Thy hands let me fall, O Lord,..."
"Up North" is a quintessential example of Mary Hannay Foott's signature style... ### Why We Love This Line At Linespedia, we believe that poetry is the ultimate sanctuary for the soul...