The very winds whispered in soothing accents, and maternal Nature bade me weep no more.
Sentiment: NEGATIVE
When the baby dies, On every side Rose stranger's voices, hard and harsh and loud. The baby was not wrapped in any shroud. The mother made no sound. Her head was bowed That men's eyes might not see Her misery.
I like the contrast in making something that sounds sunny but also has an element of melancholy to it.
Just being a mother is making me a big, weepy mess.
Tears fall in my heart like the rain on the town.
Motherhood is at its best when the tender chords of sympathy have been touched.
But, truly, I have wept too much! The Dawns are heartbreaking. Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter.
As all of us are only too aware, the loud and frantic voices of the outer world easily drown out the small, still loving voice within.
And when I was born, I drew in the common air, and fell upon the earth, which is of like nature; and the first voice which I uttered was crying, as all others do.
When sparrows build and the leaves break forth, My old sorrow wakes and cries.
There's not a wind but whispers of thy name; And not a flow'r that grows beneath the moon, But in its hues and fragrance tells a tale Of thee, my love.