He cannot have God for his Father who will not have the Church for his mother.

Poor indeed must thou be, if around thee
Thou no ray of light and joy canst throw—

Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe,
That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so.

Thou will scarce be a man before thy mother.

INFANT SORROW My mother groaned, my father wept: Into the dangerous world I leapt, Helpless, naked, piping loud, Like a fiend hid in a cloud. Struggling in my father's hands, Striving against my swaddling-bands, Bound and weary, I thought best To sulk upon my mother's breast.

Why like a tender girl dost thou complain!
That strives to reach the mother's breast in vain;
Mourns by her side, her knees embraces fast,
Hangs on her robes, and interrupts her haste;
Yet, when with fondness to her arms she's rais'd,
Still mourns and weeps, and will not be appeas'd!

Thou art so pitiful,
Poor, and so sorrowful,
Yet of great treasure full,
Mighty, all-powerful,
Russia, my Mother!

You see what a poor sinner I am, and how unworthy to possess what was given me; for that reason, it has been taken away.

No one can have God for his Father, who has not the Church for his mother.

All that I am or Hope to be
I owe to My Mother

Deprivation is the mother of poetry.

Why art thou silent and invisible,
Father of Jealousy?

And wilt thou leave me thus?
Say nay! say nay! for shame!
To save thee from the blame
Of all my grief and grame.
And wilt thou leave me thus?
Say nay! say nay!

Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?
O sweet content!
Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplex'd?
O punishment!