By Pekingto Jimo
Nine years have passed and I still feel so blue
When I think of you, doctor of renown.
And how I wish I could bid you adieu
Before the harsh storm of age blew you down.
And when I think of how these many years
Your resting place to visit dared not I,
In grief cries out my heart, and I have fears
That I may with regret live till I die.
For though I dreamed to come and comfort you
With my success, yet by fate crippled, came
My plans to naught, and I could not see you,
Or visit the stone marked with your dear name.
And now, you cannot hear me mourn your death,
But here I come lamenting yet once more,
The sad loss of my patron; soul so great,
A giver true, a mother of the poor.
And since your passing, there has been a dearth
In our world, of good men and people nice.
Kind mother, your demise has left the earth
One giver less and many orphaned twice.
The poor man’s house is now a place forlorn
Where mirth of joyous children’s heard no more.
The fair house, once for all a happy home
Now calmly sleeps; your praises sung no more.
Here I come, not with gifts but praise in verse,
To tell the world of how you helped the poor
And needy, yet ne’er fame or glory sought.
Adieu, till we meet on the other shore.