Kulasgh, Kulasgh, my mother, *
I sit at thy knee
Weaving my basket of grasses,
Weaving for my harvest of berries when the Ripe Days come.
Thy fingers gently touch my hair with fragrance,
Thy mouth drips a song, for the wind has kissed it—
(Love sings in thy mouth!)
The soil listens and answers;
I feel a stirring beneath me and hear buds opening,
The river chants thy song and the clouds dance to it.
Tonight the stars will float upon thy singing breath,
Gleaming like slanting flocks above the sea.
All the earth sings: and its voices are one song!

I alone am silent: I alone, a maid waiting him, the Fate,
The Stirring One, the Planter of the Harvest,
The Basket-Filler.
Kulasgh, Kulasgh, Mother!
See how beautiful, how liberal, is my basket,
How tightly woven for the waters of Love,
How soft for the treading of children's feet,
How strong to bear them up!
Kulasgh, Kulasgh, Mother, remember me—
Ere the Sunset and the Dropping Leaf!