sharing every feeling, almost without knowing it himself.
Once, indeed, he seems to justify himself—
"Whom else should I cry to, Mother?
The baby cries for its mother alone—
And I am not the son of such
That I should call any woman my mother!
Tho' the mother beat him,
The child cries 'Mother, O Mother!'
And clings still tighter to her garment.
True I cannot see Thee,
Yet am I not a lost child!
I still cry 'Mother, Mother!'"
But indignant pride gives way to secret despair, mingled with an angry impatience. God must be dead—no living mother could so long resist a baby's cries. He will hold a funeral in effigy, and retire from the world for ever.
"Mind, stop calling 'Mother, Mother!"
Don't you know She is dead?—
Else why should She not come?
I am going to the banks of the Ganges,
To burn the grass image of my Mother,
And then I'll go and live in Benares."
When the question of his going
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