On Mama now my thoughts have dawdled <br />all of a week. Clothes-basket cradled <br />creaked on her hip; she'd climb the stairway <br />up to the drying-attic's airway. <br /> <br />Then, for I was an honest fellow, <br />how I would shriek and stamp and bellow! <br />That swollen laundry needs no mother. <br />Take me, and leave it to another. <br /> <br />But still she drudged so quietly, <br />nor scolded me nor looked upon me, <br />and the hung clothes would glow and billow <br />high up above, with swoop and wallow. <br /> <br />It's too late now to still my bother; <br />what a giant was my mother-- <br />over the sky her grey hair flutters, <br />her bluing tints the heaven's waters.<br /><br />Attila Jozsef<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/mama-43/
