My mother's face is furrowed with the salt tears that fall,

But the kind eyes of my father are the saddest sight of all.

I have spun the fleecy lint, and now my wheel is still,

The linen length is woven for my shroud fine and chill,

I shall stretch me on the bed where a happy maid I lay—

Pray for the soul of Mairė Og at dawning of the day!

Ethna Carbery

[329]

MARIANA

With blackest moss the flower-plots