Mother my ship,
my course, my sound,
what will I do
now you have drowned?

Where will I sleep,
how will I steer,
where will I go?

O where can I sail
without your compass,
your vim and valor?

How will I know
in torrents ahead
lie danger or rainbow,
when Mother my good
bright love is dead—

How does it feel
to dwell in the sky
without mast or galley
and sun for an eye?

With cloud your shroud,
who mothers me now?

(after May Swenson)