Classic Poem

She was a wet nurse, but I was afraid.
Night and day, “My child,” she sobbed,
“I'm all bones,” and saying, “If I die,”
with love fiercer than mother's,
held me tight.—As if to say, “I'll be sad.”

She was a wet nurse, but how afraid I was.
Devotion, a moment before death;
her tearless, aged eyes
with love fiercer than mother's
stared at me—bluish white.

She was a wet nurse, but I can't forget her.
Aggrieved, confused with doubts,
she huddled up like water when I cried,
“My child, it's me” (must have been two at night)
“I'm your mother”—her face turned pale.