At labor, moving, busy and serene.
Glad, graceful is the smile that flashes there —
That many come to love, and more to care,
Then fill the void with words, the in-between.

But daylight ends, and soon the lights go out.
She wanders home, to her enshrouding chair;
And spreads her tears in silent sorrow there,
To water ground where no more buds will sprout

.

.

.

 [… tristis est, filia mea …]