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THE ARMENIAN MOTHER
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.
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