 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
O mother mine!
I read, unweeting how the moments passed,
And louder read as yonder garden choir
That first but piped, each bird a note, then slept,
Rewakening shook the blossoming boughs, as though
God loved no praise but theirs! The ascended sun
Shoots o'er the pavement now a longer beam,
A warmth how grateful, for the unsandalled foot
Chills soon upon these marbles. Why, O why
Hate men our Master? Fierce in fight they call him:
Methinks there might be wars with mildness blent;
They say that turtles fight, and yet, one dead,
Its little mate heart-stricken dies of grief.
What know I? Mother, you have heard his letter:
Needs must I write my thanks upon my knees?
And yet not thus: my tears might blot the page;
And ‘keep,’ he said, ‘in youth thy tears for God:
Drop them in age for man—less dangerous then.’
I must write gaily lest my scroll prove irksome:
I must write briefly for he ends, ‘Few words!
Mine hours with tasks are laden.’
I read, unweeting how the moments passed,
And louder read as yonder garden choir
That first but piped, each bird a note, then slept,
Rewakening shook the blossoming boughs, as though
God loved no praise but theirs! The ascended sun
Shoots o'er the pavement now a longer beam,
A warmth how grateful, for the unsandalled foot
Chills soon upon these marbles. Why, O why
Hate men our Master? Fierce in fight they call him:
Methinks there might be wars with mildness blent;
They say that turtles fight, and yet, one dead,
Its little mate heart-stricken dies of grief.
What know I? Mother, you have heard his letter:
Needs must I write my thanks upon my knees?
And yet not thus: my tears might blot the page;
And ‘keep,’ he said, ‘in youth thy tears for God:
Drop them in age for man—less dangerous then.’
I must write gaily lest my scroll prove irksome:
I must write briefly for he ends, ‘Few words!
Mine hours with tasks are laden.’
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |