The Oldest Drama
"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.
