A mother is asked why she grieves when the earth itself seems full of happiness. She answers that she has lost her dearest—a child whose frail life cost her dearly. Told that many others have known grief like hers, she refuses that comfort. To her, shared suffering is no balm. She would rather accuse the hand of fate or God, which takes blindly, seizing her best and then going on to take the rest with no special care. She even asks whether she is denied the uniqueness of her sorrow. The mood is bitter, isolated, and defiant. Her grief does not want company; it wants recognition. The exchange captures how loss can feel both random and intensely personal, leaving the bereaved cut off from easy consolation and even from the dignity of a singular pain.
Wisdom and a Mother — Summary
Why, mourner, do you mourn, nor see The heavenly Earth's felicity?
I mourn for him, my Dearest, lost, Who lived a frail life at my cost.
A grief like yours how many have known!
Were that a balm to ease my own! Or rather might I not accuse The Hand that does not even choose, But, taking blindly, took my best, And as indifferently takes the rest ... Like mine? Is there denied to me Even Sorrow's singularity?