  I WAS a mother, and I weep; The night is come—the day is sped— The night of woe profound, for, oh, My little golden son is dead! The pretty rose that bloomed anon Upon my mother breast, they stole; They let the dove I nursed with love Fly far away—so sped my soul! That falcon Death swooped down upon My sweet-voiced turtle as he sung; ’Tis hushed and dark where soared the lark, And so, and so my heart was wrung! Before my eyes, they sent the hail Upon my green pomegranate-tree— Upon the bough where only now A rosy apple bent to me. They shook my beauteous almond-tree, Beating its glorious bloom to death— They strewed it round upon the ground, And mocked its fragrant dying breath. I was a mother, and I weep; I seek the rose where nestleth none— No more is heard the singing bird— I have no little golden son! So fall the shadows over me, The blighted garden, lonely nest. Reach down in love, O God above! And fold my darling to thy breast. |
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