by Hans Christian Andersen.
Translated by Mary Howitt.
Originally published in Howitt's Journal (William Lovett) vol.2 #39 (25 Sep 1847).
Mother, I'm tired, and I would fain be sleeping;
Let me repose upon thy bosom seek:
But promise me that thou wilt leave off weeping,
Because thy tears fall hot upon my cheek.
Here it is cold: the tempest raveth madly;
But in my dreams all is so wondrous bright:
I see the angel-children smiling gladly,
When from my weary eyes I shut out light.
Mother, one stands beside me now! and, listen!
Dost thou not hear the music's sweet accord?
See how his white wings beautifully glisten!
Surely those wings were given him by our Lord!
Green, gold, and red are floating all around me:
They are the flowers the angel scattereth.
Shall I have also wings whilst life has bound me?
Or, mother, are they given alone in death?
Why dost thou clasp me as if I were going?
Why dost thou press thy cheek thus unto mine?
Thy cheek is hot, and yet thy tears are flowing:
I will, dear mother, will be always thine!
Do not sigh thus—it marreth my reposing;
And, if thou weep, then I must weep with thee!
Oh, I am tired—my weary eyes are closing:
—Look, mother, look! the angel kisseth me!