DITLEVSEN, Tove

Til mit døde Barn (To My Dead Child)

I never heard your little voice.

Your pale lips never smiled at me.

And the kick of your tiny feet

Is something I will never see.

We have been together many days,

all my sustenance I shared with you.

You and I can surely not be blamed,

for all our weakness, yours and mine.

Infant child, you now will never feel

the heady pulse of life for good or bad. –

’Tis for the best, sleep soundly darling boy,

for we must yield to those of greater strength.

See how I kiss your icy hand,

happy to be with you yet awhile,

silently I kiss you, weeping not, –

though the tears are burning in my throat.

When the men bring in the casket white,

you need not fear, for mother will come with you,

I will dress you in your tiny silken shirt

for the first time – and the very last.

I will make believe you lived some days,

I will pretend that you have smiled at me,

and your little mouth has suckled at my breast,

so not a single drop remains.

How heavy is the footfall of the casket-bearers,

to no avail my laden breast awaits you.

Infant child, my golden now dead dream. –

Your tiny feet I kiss – and weep.