Classic Poem

I grieve for my second daughter.
Six years I carried her about,
Held her against my breast and helped her eat,
Taught her rhymes as she sat on my knee.
She would arise early and copy her elder sister's dress,
Struggling to see herself in the dressing-table mirror.
She had begun to delight in pretty silks and lace,
But in a poor family she could have none of these.
I would sigh over my own recurring frustrations,
Treading the byways through the rain and snow.
But evenings when I returned to receive her greeting
My sad cares would be transformed into contentment.
What were we to do, that day when illness struck?
The worse because it was during the crisis;
Frightened by the alarming sounds, she sank quickly into death.
There was no time even to fix medicines for her.
Distraught, I prepared her poor little coffin;
Weeping, accompanied it to that distant hillside.
It is already lost in the vast void.
Inconsolate, I still grieve deeply for her.
I think how last year, in the spring,
When the flowers bloomed by the pond in our old garden
She led me by the hand along under the trees
And asked me to break off a pretty branch for her.
This year again the flowers bloom.
Now I live far from home, here by this river's edge.
All the household are here, only she is gone.
I look at the flowers, and my tears fall in vain.
A cup of wine brings me no comfort.
The wind makes desolate sounds in the night curtains.