 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
433
NO—YES.
Let the coward, let the fool
Take the slashing sword-cut NO—
Adverse weapons are a tool
Subject to me, as I go;
Waves, that frightful on me fling
Surf of sorrow, when I stand,
Creep, like a discrownéd king,
Tame and trembling to my hand;
Winds, that blow the craven craft
Wrecked upon the rugged shoal,
Yoked as servants, only waft
Mine in safety to its goal.
Take the slashing sword-cut NO—
Adverse weapons are a tool
Subject to me, as I go;
Waves, that frightful on me fling
Surf of sorrow, when I stand,
Creep, like a discrownéd king,
Tame and trembling to my hand;
Winds, that blow the craven craft
Wrecked upon the rugged shoal,
Yoked as servants, only waft
Mine in safety to its goal.
Let the coward, let the fool
Quail before the furnace NO—
It is but a shadow cool
Compassing me, as I go;
Fiery portals breathe no harms,
That to others were a grave,
And with sweet caressing arms
Open ever to the brave;
Warm me in the wintry blast,
Fears and frailties burn, and bend
Stubborn fancies, and at last
Light me to the glorious end.
Quail before the furnace NO—
It is but a shadow cool
Compassing me, as I go;
Fiery portals breathe no harms,
That to others were a grave,
And with sweet caressing arms
Open ever to the brave;
Warm me in the wintry blast,
Fears and frailties burn, and bend
Stubborn fancies, and at last
Light me to the glorious end.
Let the coward, let the fool
Halt outside the barrier NO—
It is but a blessèd stool
Striving upward, as I go;
Every hindrance is a help,
Curbed by courage—every lack,
Lions are but curs, that yelp
Idly on my forward track;
Giants melt in mist, and mounts
Carve their crosses into thrones,
Marahs yield refreshing founts,
Stumbling-blocks turn stepping-stones.
Halt outside the barrier NO—
It is but a blessèd stool
Striving upward, as I go;
Every hindrance is a help,
Curbed by courage—every lack,
Lions are but curs, that yelp
Idly on my forward track;
Giants melt in mist, and mounts
Carve their crosses into thrones,
Marahs yield refreshing founts,
Stumbling-blocks turn stepping-stones.
Let the coward, let the fool
Flinch before the ocean NO—
It is but a wayside pool,
Scarce regarded, as I go;
All the crests that cruel rise,
All the buffets, are as sport,
Speeding me unto the prize
Somewhere in a golden port;
Till the angel sent to slay,
Borne on clouds that blacker press,
Wrung from iron lips of NAY,
Falters the reluctant YES.
Flinch before the ocean NO—
It is but a wayside pool,
Scarce regarded, as I go;
All the crests that cruel rise,
All the buffets, are as sport,
Speeding me unto the prize
Somewhere in a golden port;
434
Borne on clouds that blacker press,
Wrung from iron lips of NAY,
Falters the reluctant YES.
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |