A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/Sonnet—To My Mother (Henri Heine)
Sonnet.—TO MY MOTHER.
Proud from my birth, I never care to pay
Homage to men, whatever be their place;
No king may boast that looking me in face,
He—mortal—made me turn my eyes away;
But in thy holy presence, let me say,
My pride, O mother, fades and leaves no trace,
And the wings drop that bear me up through space
To scale the skies in veriest open day.
Am I o'erwhelmed because thy powerful soul
Penetrating all earthly things is lost
In God's own bosom, its predestined goal?
Or is it rather that my mind is crost
By memories sad of wounds I often gave
A heart so tender, loving, patient, brave?