My son, you have exhausted me with care—What harm if you would pause and breathe the air?
You spend your daylight hours in idle play;Had evening not arrived, you'd never stay.
Time is a game to you, however longYou sport with it, though weariness grow strong.
I bore from life a burden far aboveYour weight—had you but known a mother's love!
You loaded me with cares beyond my share,Yet had you known, you would have helped me bear.
You left me prey to every passing thought,O son of mine—what shame your sport has brought!
You wearied out your frame with willing zest—Had you but heeded counsel, you'd have rest.
You left my counsel for your heedless ways—Had you but known what fills my nights and days!
A ball you chase, or ride upon your bike,While I would have you tender as a spike
Of green upon a branch that newly grew—Does sport appeal to you more than I do?
The food you spurn I would have gladly fed—So long as you, my son, are tired instead.
My soul has dreamed—what do I suffer? None;For you I hid complaint beneath the sun.
O you who leave me lonely in my grief,What I endure finds neither pause nor brief.
A Friday and a weekday are the same—Each passes quickly in your heedless game.
O bird of mine, at your age did you knowI wrote and read as years began to flow?
I spent my childhood's season verse by verse,Reciting what my pen had rehearsed.
Since childhood I have lived for books alone—Naught else I wished for, naught I would have known.
Unless the mind's foundation you secure,You shall not gain the prize you would procure.
I do not fear the world or what it brings—But I fear for you, my son, on fragile wings.
Book Details 
