"It fell on a day, that he went out to his father to the reapers.
               And he said unto his father, My head, my head.  And he said to a lad,
               Carry him to his mother.  And . . . he sat on her knees till noon,
               and then died.  And she went up, and laid him on the bed. . . .
               And shut the door upon him and went out."

          Immortal story that no mother's heart
           Ev'n yet can read, nor feel the biting pain
          That rent her soul!  Immortal not by art
           Which makes a long past sorrow sting again

          Like grief of yesterday:  but since it said
           In simplest word the truth which all may see,
          Where any mother sobs above her dead
           And plays anew the silent tragedy.