 | The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown |  |
694
SAD! SAD!
O, sad when grass is green,
O, sad when blue-bells blow,
Sad, sad 'mid lily sheen,
Laburnum's rippled glow,
And all the things that grow,
And are not sad—
Sad! sad!
O, sad when blue-bells blow,
Sad, sad 'mid lily sheen,
Laburnum's rippled glow,
And all the things that grow,
And are not sad—
Sad! sad!
O, sad when lambkins skip,
O, sad when children play,
Sad, sad, when to my lip
Is pressed the dewy may,
And all the bright things say:—
“Why art thou sad?”
Sad! sad!
O, sad when children play,
Sad, sad, when to my lip
Is pressed the dewy may,
And all the bright things say:—
“Why art thou sad?”
Sad! sad!
Is it some tricksy Puck
That makes me causeless dole?
Or does some vampire suck
The blood from out my soul?
Or is it joy diviner,
Joy echoing in a minor,
Joy vibrant to its pole,
That seems but sad?—
Sad! sad!
That makes me causeless dole?
Or does some vampire suck
The blood from out my soul?
Or is it joy diviner,
Joy echoing in a minor,
Joy vibrant to its pole,
That seems but sad?—
Sad! sad!
Is it the ebbing ghost
Of God that leaves me dry
Upon a weary coast,
Beneath a burning sky?
Is it His voice afar
That booms upon the bar,
And makes me sigh,
And makes me sad?
Sad! sad!
Of God that leaves me dry
Upon a weary coast,
Beneath a burning sky?
Is it His voice afar
That booms upon the bar,
And makes me sigh,
And makes me sad?
Sad! sad!
695
Or does the old travail-pain
Resume the mother-geist?
In some far orb again
Is boundless ransom priced
For others than for us?
In Mars, or Uranus,
They crucify the Christ?
So am I sad—
Sad! sad!
Resume the mother-geist?
In some far orb again
Is boundless ransom priced
For others than for us?
In Mars, or Uranus,
They crucify the Christ?
So am I sad—
Sad! sad!
One thing appears to me—
The work is not complete;
One world I know, and see
It is not at His feet—
Not, not! Is this the sum?
Not, not! the Heaven is dumb—
I bear His stigmata
Or not—ah, who shall say?
Only it is most meet
That I be sad—
Sad! sad!
The work is not complete;
One world I know, and see
It is not at His feet—
Not, not! Is this the sum?
Not, not! the Heaven is dumb—
I bear His stigmata
Or not—ah, who shall say?
Only it is most meet
That I be sad—
Sad! sad!
| The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown | |