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.
End of title
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