 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
168
THE BITTEREST.
Love took me by the hand, and said: “Arise,
To know this last and bitterest thing, O son!”
I bowed my face, and said: “Thy will be done;”
And then he brought me where, beneath warm skies,
A gracious land unfolded to mine eyes.
“A goodly land it is,” he said, “but none
May ever dwell therein.” “Then I will shun
The sight of it,” I cried; but, with deep sighs
To know this last and bitterest thing, O son!”
I bowed my face, and said: “Thy will be done;”
And then he brought me where, beneath warm skies,
A gracious land unfolded to mine eyes.
“A goodly land it is,” he said, “but none
May ever dwell therein.” “Then I will shun
The sight of it,” I cried; but, with deep sighs
Love answered me, and said: “Nay, son, not so;
But thou must gaze forever on this land,
For thus thy lady wills that it shall be,
Seeing the far-off peace thou canst not see.”
I said, “I do not seek to understand;
Only, Love, give me grace her will to know.”
But thou must gaze forever on this land,
For thus thy lady wills that it shall be,
Seeing the far-off peace thou canst not see.”
I said, “I do not seek to understand;
Only, Love, give me grace her will to know.”
| The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | |