Because I was a woman lone And had of friends so few, I made two little ones my own, Whose parents no one knew; Unwanted foundlings of the night, Left at the convent door, Whose tiny hands in piteous plight Seemed to implore.
By Deed to them I gave my name, And never will they know That from the evil slums they came, Two waifs of want and woe; I fostered them with love and care As if they were my own: Now John, my son, is tall and fair, And dark is Joan.
My boy's a member of the Bar, My girl a nurse serene; Yet when I think of what they are And what they might have been, With shuddering I glimpse a hell Of black and bitter fruit... Where John might be a criminal, And Joan--a prostitute.
Volunteers needed to translate poetry into different languages. Please help us correct the translation of these poems. We currently have 79,663 translations and are trying to create the largest and most accurate database of world poetry translations. We have started with machine translations which are very inaccurate. Please translate your favorite poem on this site. You will be given credit for your translation and a link to your site if desired. COPYRIGHT NOTICE: These poems have been gathered and submitted by many of people, and from many sources. Most have no copyright. However, some may may have copyrights. We have tried to collect poems that appear on many external sites where the author seems to want to disseminate. If you are an author and do not want your poetry translated into other languages then send a removal request and it will be promptly removed.