The Sailor's Mother By William Wordsworth

One Morning (Raw It Was And Wet A Foggy Day In Winter Time) A Woman On The Road I Met, Not Old, Though Something Past Her Prime: Majestic In Her Person, Tall And Straight; And Like A Roman Matron'S Was Her Mien And Gait. The Ancient Spirit Is Not Dead; Old Times, Thought I, Are Breathing There; Proud Was I That My Country Bred Such Strength, A Dignity So Fair: She Begged An Alms, Like One In Poor Estate; I Looked At Her Again, Nor Did My Pride Abate. When From These Lofty Thoughts I Woke, "What Is It," Said I, "That You Bear, Beneath The Covert Of Your Cloak, Protected From This Cold Damp Air? " She Answered, Soon As She The Question Heard, "A Simple Burthen, Sir, A Little Singing-Bird." And, Thus Continuing, She Said, "I Had A Son, Who Many A Day Sailed On The Seas, But He Is Dead; In Denmark He Was Cast Away: And I Have Travelled Weary Miles To See If Aught Which He Had Owned Might Still Remain For Me. The Bird And Cage They Both Were His: 'Twas My Son'S Bird; And Neat And Trim He Kept It: Many Voyages The Singing-Bird Had Gone With Him; When Last He Sailed, He Left The Bird Behind; From Boding'S, As Might Be, That Hung Upon His Mind. He To A Fellow-Lodger'S Care Had Left It, To Be Watched And Fed, And Pipe Its Song In Safety; There I Found It When My Son Was Dead; And Now, God Help Me For My Little Wit! I Bear It With Me, Sir; He Took So Much Delight In It."