III

Mother, my cheeks grow thin with cares I forget to know.

With things I forget to feel, nor know how to think, I pine.

Mine envy, mother, is with the figure of the sturdy man at the wheel,

That does his duty in storms and is salt at soul with good brine.

My heart is lost to a perillous life full of achievement and breath.

My thoughts are given like gifts to a life I could never live.

Teach me how to myself my own life I can forgive.

Teach me how to love life, at least how not to fear death,

And be all that you teach in the sense of a mute kiss you give.