The poem
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.