Lament II

If I had ever thought to write in praise
Of little children and their simple ways,
Far rather had I fashioned cradle verse
To rock to slumber, or the songs a nurse
Might croon above the baby on her breast,
Setting her charge’s short-lived woes at rest.
For much more useful are such trifling tasks
Than that which sad misfortune this day asks:
To weep o’er thy deaf grave, dear maiden mine,
And wail the harshness of grim Proserpine 1 .
But now I have no choice of subject: then
I shunned a theme scarce fitting riper men,