Death & Dying
My Mother, My Mother
Translated by William N. Loew (1912) · From Cypress Leaves from the Grave of Dear Ethel
My mother, my mother, the best though the most
Disconsolate mother that lives!
Miser reality — the cruel master of hope, —
To thee thereof no portion gives.
Like Noah of old thou hast sent out thy doves
Of hope to find thy yearning's goal,
With realization's green twig in their bills
No bird returned to cheer thy soul.
Thy last, fondest hope: when once in thy grave
Thou liest cold in dreamless sleep,
Thy sorrowing son, some warmth will bring
With the burning tears which be shall weep,
Will not be realized. This consolation e'en
Can not be thine! Forgive him pray!
At his beloved sweetheart's grave, thy son
All of his tears has wept awey.
Cite this poem
MLA
Petőfi, Sándor. “My Mother, My Mother.” Translated by William N. Loew. Poetry Codex, poetrycodex.com/poem/petofi/30/.
Chicago
Petőfi, Sándor. “My Mother, My Mother.” Translated by William N. Loew. Poetry Codex. https://poetrycodex.com/poem/petofi/30/.
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