The Woman's Child
LET not thy hands be idle, since that brings
Pain to the heart. Spin off thy distaff quickly,
While I sit alone at my distaff, I hear the voices of children,
The voices of the children who are passing;
I hear their laughter too, and the sound of their feet,
The little feet that run into other cottages;
But there is no one to run into mine.
My house is as silent as the grave,
As silent as the grave in the churchyard,
Where my little one is lying.
O little son, who only lived an hour,
If thou lived now, thou would'st be eight years old,
The garden would be full of sunshine for thee,
Thy father's cold heart full of gladness for thee,
Thy mother's sad heart full of pleasure for thee,
But thou art very far!
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