The book of the dead :: :: University of Virginia Library

Boker, George H. (1823-1890)

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I make a pageant of my pain,
Some say, throughout my dreary song,
And mar the sweetness of my strain
With dismal groans at crime and wrong.

It may be so: I can but sing;
For thus one half my grief is drowned:
The wild bird, struck beneath the wing,
Recks little how his note may sound.

This cry of pain invades the land,
It fills my ears, it will not pass;
Life's brightest and most golden sand
Runs grating through the narrow glass.

I do not say our journey goes
Without some roses, there and here;
Although short seasons has the rose,
The thorns are growing all the year.

I quarrel not with human mirth;
I envy not the man who steals
His hard-wrung pleasures from the earth,
And swings the wine-cup till he reels.

I shall not enter at his door
With doleful songs, to move his scorn;
May roses crown him o'er and o'er!
I sing for him who feels the thorn.

I care not who are deaf, who hear:
Amidst the people's groan and shout,
I sing as nature wills; the ear
'Twould hear my song must seek it out.

And if it be a moan or sigh,
Unwelcome, foolish, as you deem,
I pray you pass me lightly by,
And leave the dreamer to his dream.