The poem
I am no one and never will be anyone, for I am far too small to claim to be; not even later.
Mothers and Fathers, take pity on me.
I fear it will not pay to raise me: I shall fall victim to the mower's scythe. No one can find me useful now: I am too young, and tomorrow will be too late.
I only have one dress, worn thin and faded, but it will last an eternity even before God, perhaps.
I only have this whispy hair (that always remained the same) yet once was someone's dearest love.
Now he has nothing that he loves.