THE WAIL OF THE CORNISH MOTHER - Rabindranath Tagore Poems

THE WAIL OF THE CORNISH MOTHER

They say 'tis a sin to sorrow,
    That what God doth is best:
But 'tis only a month to-morrow,
    I buried it from my breast.

I know it should be a pleasure,
    Your child to God to send: --
But mine was a precious treasure
    To me and to my poor friend.

I thought it would call me "mother,"
    The very first words it said;
O! I never can love another,
    Like the blessèd babe that's dead.

Well, God is its own dear Father,
    It was carried to church and blessed:
And our Saviour's arms will gather
    Such children to their rest.

I shall make my best endeavour,
    That my sins may be forgiven:
I will serve God more than ever,
    To meet my child in heaven.

I will check this foolish sorrow,
    For what God doth is best: --
But O! 'tis a month to-morrow,
    I buried it from my breast.

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