I Could Wish There Were A God,

I Am The Mother That Bore You, And Your Sorrow Is My Agony; And If You Don't Hate Her, I Do' Then, Mother, You Make Me Love Her More. She Is Unjustly Treated By You, And I Must Make The Balance Even.

She Would Fain Have Caught At The Skirts Of That Departing Time, And Prayed It To Return, And Give Her Back What She Had Too Little Valued While It Was Yet In Her Possession. What A Vain Show Life Seemed! How Unsubstantial, And Flickering, And Flitting! It Was As If From Some Aerial Belfry, High Up Above The Stir And Jar Of The Earth, There Was A Bell Continually Tolling, ‘all Are Shadows!—all Are Passing!—all Is Past!

She Lay Down And Never Stirred. To Move Hand Or Foot, Or Even So Much As One Finger, Would Have Been An Exertion Beyond The Powers Of Either Volition Or Motion. She Was So Tired, So Stunned, That She Thought She Never Slept At All; Her Feverish Thoughts Passed And Repassed The Boundary Between Sleeping And Waking, And Kept Their Own Miserable Identity.

One May Be Clogged With Honey And Unable To Rise And Fly.

Yet It Was Very Difficult To Separate Her Interpretation, And Keep It Distinct From His Meaning.