ONE morning (raw it was and wet--- <br /> A foggy day in winter time) <br /> A Woman on the road I met, <br /> Not old, though something past her prime: <br /> Majestic in her person, tall and straight; <br />And like a Roman matron's was her mien and gait. <br /> <br /> The ancient spirit is not dead; <br /> Old times, thought I, are breathing there; <br /> Proud was I that my country bred <br /> Such strength, a dignity so fair: <br /> She begged an alms, like one in poor estate; <br />I looked at her again, nor did my pride abate. <br /> <br /> When from these lofty thoughts I woke, <br /> 'What is it,' said I, 'that you bear, <br /> Beneath the covert of your Cloak, <br /> Protected from this cold damp air? ' <br /> She anwered, soon as she the question heard, <br />'A simple burthen, Sir, a little Singing-bird.' <br /> <br /> And, thus continuing, she said, <br /> 'I had a Son, who many a day <br /> Sailed on the seas, but he is dead; <br /> In Denmark he was cast away: <br /> And I have travelled weary miles to see <br />If aught which he had owned might still remain for me. <br /> <br /> The bird and cage they both were his: <br /> 'Twas my Son's bird; and neat and trim <br /> He kept it: many voyages <br /> The singing-bird had gone with him; <br /> When last he sailed, he left the bird behind; <br />From bodings, as might be, that hung upon his mind. <br /> <br /> He to a fellow-lodger's care <br /> Had left it, to be watched and fed, <br /> And pipe its song in safety;---there <br /> I found it when my Son was dead; <br /> And now, God help me for my little wit! <br />I bear it with me, Sir;---he took so much delight in it.'<br /><br />William Wordsworth<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-sailor-s-mother/
