Page:Songs of the Slav.pdf/48



My mother, aft long rows of years I plant To-day a sonnet 'neath thy name of gold. Only a sonnet where hymn I should chant, But verses, where should sacred prayers be told.

Ah, one must tread adown the path of woe And bury much in many storm accursed, Curse all that once he would have fondled so, Despair, and oftentimes in weeping burst.

Then ridicule he must cynically That frivolous, yet frightful song of life, To accent the word "mother" properly.

And loathsome must that song to him remain, To say he hears forever in the strife That "mother" sound as a sacred refrain.