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 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
LOVE AND SORROW.
Sorrow, of Love begotten, fought with Love
And bruised the mother's breast, and in her ear
Hissed bitter words and base; then Love had fear.
But still with that rebellious one she strove,
Till Sorrow, seeming humble, sought to move
Love's heart with sophistry, and cried, “Ah, dear!
What can we hope for now? Behold, quite near
Is many a mystic cave and magic grove,
And bruised the mother's breast, and in her ear
Hissed bitter words and base; then Love had fear.
But still with that rebellious one she strove,
Till Sorrow, seeming humble, sought to move
Love's heart with sophistry, and cried, “Ah, dear!
What can we hope for now? Behold, quite near
Is many a mystic cave and magic grove,
“Wherein we may forget, at least one day,
Our sad relationship; fear thou no snare:”—
So Sorrow, kneeling, prayed her impious prayer.
But mightier was the mother than the child,
Who owned her sin; and these two, reconciled,
Now help each other on the tedious way.
Our sad relationship; fear thou no snare:”—
So Sorrow, kneeling, prayed her impious prayer.
But mightier was the mother than the child,
Who owned her sin; and these two, reconciled,
Now help each other on the tedious way.
| The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | |