Lament VII
Sad trinkets of my little daughter, dresses That touched her like caresses, Why do you draw my mournful eyes? To borrow A newer weight of sorrow? No longer will you clothe her form, to fold her Around, and wrap her, hold her. A hard, unwaking sleep has overpowered Her limbs, and now the flowered Cool muslin and the ribbon snoods are bootless, The gilded girdles fruitless. My little girl, 'twas to a bed far other That one day thy poor mother Had thought to lead thee, and this simple dower Suits not the bridal hour; A tiny shroud and gown of her own sewing She gives thee at thy going. Thy rather brings a clod of earth, a somber Pillow for thy last slumber. And so a single casket, scant of measure, Locks thee and all thy treasure.
AI analysis available. Enable JavaScript to interact.
About this line
"Sad trinkets of my little daughter, dresses..."
Jan Kochanowski's contribution to classic is further solidified by the brilliance found in "Lament VII"... ### Why We Love This Line At Linespedia, we believe that poetry is the ultimate sanctuary for the soul...