An Ode on Maternal Love

There are few fountains with the passion of,
though many claim to bear its purest zeal,
the eternal spring of maternal love,
whose whiter water cascade ever heals.

Its labors, despite their hardened toil and pain,
do push the earth's perpetual song of life.
With clenched force this passion deftly strains,
yet does so with felicity, despite strife.

Evil, with its lock on human hands,
does quake to look on loves as pure as these,
whose fire turns its grip to feeble sand
that subsequently drowns in darker seas.

For maternal love's deep power, born in birth
Is the purest human love God granted earth.