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Teresa and Other Poems

By James Rhoades
  

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Οιος απ' αλλων
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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63

Οιος απ' αλλων

Sometimes amid the festal throng
One pallid face I see;
The dancers start, but stay not long
To question, Who is he?
He heeds not them, but passes by,
As dead to blame or praise;
His life is with the things that lie
Beneath the buried days.
On lonely crag by mountain lake
I've watched him swiftly stride,
With that far look, as he would take
The distance for his bride:
Grey cloud and wintry summit seemed
His kith and kin to be;
But that whereof his spirit dreamed
Was not in earth or sea.
A soldier, beneath alien suns
The weary march he's plied,
Has stormed the breach, and charged the guns,
Sought death, but never died.
The fevered lips and fainting knees,
The bowed and burdened head—
He knows a heavier weight than these,
A heart to pleasure dead.

64

And once, amid the shouting ranks,
With songs of loud acclaim,
I saw him when a people's thanks
Rang to his honoured name:
He recked not of their minstrelsy,
Nor saw the flower-hung street;
His heart was where the pine-trees sigh
Above his buried Sweet.