Whenever He passed by, my heart ached for his loveliness,
- But my mother frowned at Him in contempt,
- And would hasten me from the window To my bedchamber.
And she would cry aloud, saying:
“Who is He but another locust-eater from the desert?
“What is He but a scoffer and a renegade, A seditious riot-monger, who would rob us of sceptre and crown, And bid the foxes and the jackals of His accursèd land Howl in our halls and sit upon our throne?
Go hide your face from this day, And await the day when His head shall fall down, But not upon your platter.”
These things my mother said. But my heart would not keep her words. I loved Him in secret, And my sleep was girdled with flames.
He is gone now. And something that was in me is gone also.
Perhaps it was my youth That would not tarry here, Since the God of youth was slain.