You who have stood at the bedposts and
seen a mother on her high harvest day,
the day of the most golden of harvest moons for her.

You who have seen the new wet child dried behind the ears,
swaddled in soft fresh garments,
pursing its lips and sending a groping mouth toward
nipples where white milk is ready

You who have seen this love's payday
of wild toiling and sweet agonizing-

You know being born is important.
You know that nothing was ever so important to you
You understand that the payday of love is so old,
so involved, so traced with circles of the moon,
so cunning with the secrets of the salts of the blood
It must be older than the moon, older than salt.

--Carl Sandburg