Of her calf bereft,
All night long she lows:
Of her firstling joy
Born of anguished throes
Naught to her is left.

Six sweet days of bliss
Swelled her heart with pride
While her baby boy
Nuzzled her warm side,
All to end in this—

Hollow echoing night,
One long empty ache
Moaning sleeplessly:
And I lie awake
Praying that the light

Of the morrow's morn
Bring to her the rest
Still denied to me,
Since from out my breast
My first love was torn.