This page has been validated.
THE ARMENIAN MOTHER
They shook my beauteous almond-tree,
Beating its glorious bloom to death—
They strewed it round upon the ground,
And mocked its fragrant dying breath.
I was a mother, and I weep;
I seek the rose where nestleth none—
No more is heard the singing bird—
I have no little golden son!
So fall the shadows over me,
The blighted garden, lonely nest,
Reach down in love, O God above!
And fold my darling to thy breast.
[77]
