Patrick Henry Pearse
Bean Sléibhe ag Caoineadh a Mhac (A Woman of The Mountain Keens Her Son)
Grief on the death, it has blackened my heart:
lt has snatched my love and left me desolate,
Without friend or companion under the roof of my house
But this sorrow in the midst of me, and I keening.
As I walked the mountain in the evening
The birds spoke to me sorrowfully,
The sweet snipe spoke and the voiceful curlew
Relating to me that my darling was dead.
I called to you and your voice I heard not,
I called again and I got no answer,
I kissed your mouth, and O God how cold it was!
Ah, cold is your bed in the, lonely churchyard.
O green-sodded grave in which my child is,
Little narrow grave, since you are his bed,
My blessing on you, and thousands of blessings
On the green sods that are over my treasure.
Grief on the death, it cannot be denied,
It lays low, green and withered together,-
And O gentle little son, what tortures me is
That your fair body should be making clay!
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Comments about this poem (Bean Sléibhe ag Caoineadh a Mhac (A Woman of The Mountain Keens Her Son) by Patrick Henry Pearse )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
- Christina Georgina Rossetti
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
Harivansh Rai Bachchan
(27 November 1907 – 18 January 2003)
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