Son and Mother

Do you know what you are fighting against, fatuous mother
Of the adolescent boy, who does not turn to heed you?
The desire of Paris for Helen; Caesar's for Cleopatra,
No longer does he need you.

One kind of passion in your arms he learned of you.
But now he cannot remember your soft thrilling breasts.
He can only feel that the girl budding beside him there
Is all his quests.

Do you imagine you can call him back to you,
Or bribe away his years with amorous mothering?
It were as easy to bribe the wild young oak yonder
To refuse the sap of Spring.

He is no longer a son. His passion is prouder and older
Than motherhood; so he masters you, as his father did.
His father is dead. And himself is the sire of the future.
In the girl a mother is hid.

Do you not see your caresses are the past to him?
He feels in your eyes what he loathes to think has ever been
In the eyes of any before. Young love would have creation
With itself begin.

Under the leaves he leads her. Adam of old led Eve so.
He does not need you. Fold your hands, and go; it is fate.
In a year the cry of a child will suffer him to remember.
Go — and wait.