Sinopsis

"The iniquity of the fathers upon the children." O the rose of keenest thorn! One hidden summer morn Under the rose I was born. I do not guess his name Who wrought my Mother's shame, And gave me life forlorn, But my Mother, Mother, Mother, I know her from all other. My Mother pale and mild, Fair as ever was seen, She was but scarce sixteen, Little more than a child, When I was born To work her scorn. With secret bitter throes, In a ion of secret woes, She bore me under the rose. One who my Mother nursed Took me from the first:-- "O nurse, let me look upon This babe that cost so dear;