 | Poems by James Rhoades |  |
1
DEDICATION.
What is there worth the giving,
That I might give to thee?
Or meet for thy receiving,
That thou should'st take of me?
Earth's crowns fade fast in weaving,
Then how should these things be?
Shall dead men praise the living,
Or slaves the spirit-free?
That I might give to thee?
Or meet for thy receiving,
That thou should'st take of me?
Earth's crowns fade fast in weaving,
Then how should these things be?
Shall dead men praise the living,
Or slaves the spirit-free?
2
It may be now thou sleepest,
It may be that, to hear
This struggling song, thou weepest
For pity tear on tear:
The world an hour will render
Of fault-encumber'd fame:
Wilt thou be still too tender,
Too mother-like to blame?
It may be that, to hear
This struggling song, thou weepest
For pity tear on tear:
The world an hour will render
Of fault-encumber'd fame:
Wilt thou be still too tender,
Too mother-like to blame?
O love of child and mother!
New loves may wax and wane;
But shall we find another,
Nor time nor tears can stain?
From life's august beginning
Through all her dark extremes
Sole love that needs no winning,
Nor wastes in passionate dreams!
New loves may wax and wane;
But shall we find another,
Nor time nor tears can stain?
From life's august beginning
Through all her dark extremes
Sole love that needs no winning,
Nor wastes in passionate dreams!
3
Love born of thoughts whose lightning
Scarce lingers in the skies!
Child-memories slowly bright'ning
Through mists of slumb'ring eyes!
What hand so close can hold us,
What lips breathe holier breath,
Till thy dark arms enfold us,
Our second mother, Death?
Scarce lingers in the skies!
Child-memories slowly bright'ning
Through mists of slumb'ring eyes!
What hand so close can hold us,
What lips breathe holier breath,
Till thy dark arms enfold us,
Our second mother, Death?
I give with tears the verses
In joy kept back from thee:
E'en now my heart rehearses
That hour of promis'd glee;
But though, the more to endear them,
I write them thine to day,
Ah me! thou wilt not hear them:
Too far—too far away!
In joy kept back from thee:
E'en now my heart rehearses
That hour of promis'd glee;
But though, the more to endear them,
I write them thine to day,
Ah me! thou wilt not hear them:
Too far—too far away!
4
Till this one change have found us,
The hours their glass forget,
The old arms linger round us,
The child-heart holds us yet;
But, once this tie dissever'd,
We gird our loins to go,
Though lips with love be fever'd
And feet from sorrow slow.
The hours their glass forget,
The old arms linger round us,
The child-heart holds us yet;
But, once this tie dissever'd,
We gird our loins to go,
Though lips with love be fever'd
And feet from sorrow slow.
My bark has slipt her moorings;
One bend obscures the bay;
New banks with new allurings
Invite who can to stay:
High crags and grassy hollows—
Past both alike we flee:
Come deep waves or come shallows,
It must come soon—the sea.
One bend obscures the bay;
New banks with new allurings
Invite who can to stay:
High crags and grassy hollows—
Past both alike we flee:
Come deep waves or come shallows,
It must come soon—the sea.
1867.
| Poems by James Rhoades | |