 | Poems Real and Ideal |  |
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II. “THY FACE.”
Among the weary crowd of weary common faces
I linger,—and I search through flowerless dreary places,
Seeking amid the throng
One vision worth a thought. Pale Death and Sorrow meet me:
Death sues me for a wreath, and Sorrow doth entreat me
To crown her wild-haired forehead with a song.
I linger,—and I search through flowerless dreary places,
Seeking amid the throng
One vision worth a thought. Pale Death and Sorrow meet me:
Death sues me for a wreath, and Sorrow doth entreat me
To crown her wild-haired forehead with a song.
Then I take up mine harp, and sing of Death and Sorrow,—
Of how the sweetest things are saddest things to-morrow;
How pain fills every place;
How woe has set its hand upon our city's features;
How agony is grooved on brows of human creatures;—
Then on a sudden, lady, lo! thy face.
Of how the sweetest things are saddest things to-morrow;
How pain fills every place;
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How agony is grooved on brows of human creatures;—
Then on a sudden, lady, lo! thy face.
Then Death and Sorrow fade, and Pain smooths out before thee
Its wrinkled brow. The sun seems ever to cast o'er thee
Strange sunlight's ceaseless charm.
Greece rises at thy glance; and Youth and Beauty linger
Beside thee just to kiss one hand or one white finger,
And Life's young red lips kiss thy rounded arm.—
Its wrinkled brow. The sun seems ever to cast o'er thee
Strange sunlight's ceaseless charm.
Greece rises at thy glance; and Youth and Beauty linger
Beside thee just to kiss one hand or one white finger,
And Life's young red lips kiss thy rounded arm.—
I wander through the crowd. I wander gloomy-hearted.
Then just as if the sun had on a sudden parted
Dense leaves that interlace
And smiled with gracious eyes adown the leafy narrows,
I weary with the points of daily pain's mute arrows
Turn round,—and on a sudden, lo! thy face.
Then just as if the sun had on a sudden parted
Dense leaves that interlace
And smiled with gracious eyes adown the leafy narrows,
I weary with the points of daily pain's mute arrows
Turn round,—and on a sudden, lo! thy face.
| Poems Real and Ideal | |