Songs of the Slav/To My Mother
TO MY MOTHER
My mother, aft long rows of years I plant
To-day a sonnet 'neath thy name of gold.
Only a sonnet where hymn I should chant,
But verses, where should sacred prayers be told.
Ah, one must tread adown the path of woe
And bury much in many storm accursed,
Curse all that once he would have fondled so,
Despair, and oftentimes in weeping burst.
Then ridicule he must cynically
That frivolous, yet frightful song of life,
To accent the word "mother" properly.
And loathsome must that song to him remain,
To say he hears forever in the strife
That "mother" sound as a sacred refrain.