When I departed from her side for marriage,My days in separation passed as though in bondage;
Life must needs cast its arrows, keen and fleet—I see life, barren without thy visage's grace,
The eye weeps on, and sorrows hold their place;I see the nights, desolate and void of cheer—
To me, light and shadow are one in their sphere;O Mother! Weep not for parting nor for sorrow's load—
For days may yet bind me to thee on life's road;Wouldst thou have my heart crushed by affliction's weight—
And live, while thy pains gnaw at my soul's estate?O Mother! How sweet were life, had it not drained
Of thy tender heart—for that is life profaned;Didst thou deem my fortune lay in my own hand?
Forever, by thy life, 'tis but a dream's bland strand;Didst thou think rank alone could satisfy
A soul like mine, whose life is but a sigh?Nay, by Him who made affection's flame
Burn in a mother's heart whose faith doth claim;Think not that friendship lasts when trials descend—
When clouds of hardship rise and fortunes bend;Who shall I see—a son devoted to his mother,
While grief and sickness hold her soul in smother?Who for the sister, from a brother fond,
Shall give again what cruel days have conned?Who shall bring me overflowing harmony
Whereby all nations live in unity?I pine for the mother, tender, worn by toil—
And cares, like flames, consume my weary soil;I pine for the shade, the shelter once mine own—
The autumn wind hath passed, and left but stone;I pine for the pure soul that once did gleam—
A slender phantom veiled in passion's dream;Think not all souls can fill our hearts with glee—
How many souls are scarred by misery;I pine for the devout heart whose bonds did fail—
Its pathways stumbled, crumbled into shale;I shall ever sing of motherhood's fair name—
Till inspiration's light shall cloak me in its flame;I shall sleep from this world's restless throng,
Where naught remains but mirage and bitter wrong;What joy in life doth I yearn to possess—
Save what the days have robbed me of, no less;So let me live in poetry's fertile ground—
Where dreams approach the precincts of my mound;
I see existence, in its forms diverse,A revel held—though strife doth still coerce;
Though far apart, my soul is still with thee.
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