 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
136
AN UNKNOWN TONGUE.
Because my life is dark and desolate,
Like some gray, uninhabitable land,
Which hears forever on its wreck-strewn strand
The roar of waves inimical as fate;
Because I cry life's bitterest cry too late;
Because pale Grief, with her relentless hand,
Leads me up paths most steep, until I stand
Alone before the shut and shadowy gate
Like some gray, uninhabitable land,
Which hears forever on its wreck-strewn strand
The roar of waves inimical as fate;
Because I cry life's bitterest cry too late;
Because pale Grief, with her relentless hand,
Leads me up paths most steep, until I stand
Alone before the shut and shadowy gate
Which opens once to each, and only once,—
Would I make your lives sad, all ye who say
“Bright are the skies above, and fair the way;
Darkness may come, the present is the sun's!”
Love knows I would not; fear not then my song.
I speak strange words; ye know not yet the tongue.
Would I make your lives sad, all ye who say
“Bright are the skies above, and fair the way;
Darkness may come, the present is the sun's!”
Love knows I would not; fear not then my song.
I speak strange words; ye know not yet the tongue.
| The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | |