The Mother's Song

"Two women shall be grinding at the mill; the one shall be taken and the other left."

All day and all day as I sit at my measureless turning,They come and they go,—The little ones down on the rocks,—and the sunlight is burningOn vineyards below;All day and all day, as I sit at my wheel and am ceaselessly grindingThe almond boughs blow.

When she was here—O my first-born!—here, grinding and singing,My hand against hers,What did I reck of the wind where the aloe is swingingAnd the cypress vine stirs?What of a bird to its little ones hastening, crying and flyingThrough the dark of the firs?

When she was here—O my beautiful'—here by me grinding,I saw not the glowOf the grape; for the bloom of her face that the sunlight was finding,And the pomegranate blowOf her mouth, and the joy of her eyes, and her voice like a dove to me singingMade my garden agrow.

Was it I? Was it I for whom Death same seeking and callingWhen he found her so fair?At the wheel, at the wheel, from dawn till the dew shall be fallingI will wait for him there.Death! (I shall cry) I am old, but yon shadow of plums that are purplingWas the hue of her hair.

Death! (I shall cry) in the sound of the mill ever turningTill dark brings release,Till the sun on the vineyards below me to crimson is burningThere is measure of peace,For all day and all day, with the wheel, are her eyes to mine turning,But Death! (I shall call) take me hence ere the daylight its shadow is spurningHence ere the night-time can wrap me around with my tears and my yearning,—When the grinding shall cease!