113. A Woman of the Mountain Keens Her Son

GRIEF on the death, it has blackened my heart:

It has snatched my low and left me desolate,

Without friend or companion under the roof of my house

But this sorrow in the midst of me, and I keening.

As I walked the mountain in the evening

The birds spoke to me sorrowfully,

The sweet snipe spoke and the voiceless curlew

Relating to me that my darling was dead.

I called to you and your voice I heard not,

I called again and I got no answer,

I kissed your mouth, and O God how cold it was!

Ah, cold is your bed in the lonely churchyard.

O green-sodded grave in which my child is,

Little narrow grave, since you are his bed,

My blessing on you, and thousands of blessings

On the green sods that are over my treasure.

Grief on the death, it cannot be denied,

It lays low, green and withered together,—

And O gentle little son, what tortures me is

That your fair body should be making clay!