Mother
Your love was like moonlightturning harsh things to beauty,
so that little wry souls
reflecting each other obliquely
as in cracked mirrors . . .
beheld in your luminous spirit
their own reflection,
transfigured as in a shining stream,
and loved you for what they are not.
You are less an image in my mind
than a luster
I see you in gleams
pale as star-light on a gray wall . . .
evanescent as the reflection of a white swan
shimmering in broken water.
Lola Ridge
Máthair
Mar sholas na gealaí a bhí do ghrásanithe garbha á n-iompú ina n-áilleacht
i dtreo is go raibh anamacha searbha
i bhfrithchaitheamh fiar a chéile
mar a bheadh i scátháin scoilte . . .
in ann iad féin a fheiscint
id' spiorad soilseach,
claochlaithe mar a bheadh i sruthán gléineach
is grá acu duit as ucht gach nach iad.
Is mó de loinnir ná d'íomhá atá ionat
i m'aignese
Feicim i ngathanna thú
mílítheach mar sholas réaltaí ar bhalla liath
gearrshaolach mar scáil na heala báine
ag crithlonrú in uisce briste
