The Widower of Haiderabad
At morning when I wake, no more
I hear her in the twilit hour,
Who beats the clay upon the floor.
Or grinds the sorghum into flour.
And when at sunset I return,
I half forget the quiet child.
Still brightening up her brazen urn,
Who never raised her head or smiled.
But when the night draws on, I fear!
. . . She stands before me, pale as ash.
And still the trembling voice I hear
That bleats beneath my mother's lash.
And I remember how she died—
Hanged to the flowering mango-bough;
For I behold the Suicide,
And it is I that tremble now.
. . . My mother wears upon her breast
A silver image of the dead.
The best of all we have the best
We offer her with bended head.
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