For in her arms she held my darling one,
My Ursula, just as she used to run
To me at dawn to say her morning prayer,
In her white nightgown, with her curling hair
Framing her rosy face, her eyes about
To laugh, like flowers only halfway out.
«Art thou still sorrowing, my son?» Thus spoke
My mother. Sighing bitterly, I woke,
Or seemed to wake, and heard her say once more:
«It is thy weeping brings me to this shore: