 | Poems by James Rhoades |  |
20
A SON'S COMPLAINT.
Sweet Nature, thou hast done me wrong,
Own mother, I have lov'd thee true,
Since when, thy flowers and fields among,
A wondering child I grew,
Own mother, I have lov'd thee true,
Since when, thy flowers and fields among,
A wondering child I grew,
Till now, when, as thy voices roll,
I feel the gathering passions throng,
With thoughts that eddy round the soul,
And fly for rest to song.
I feel the gathering passions throng,
With thoughts that eddy round the soul,
And fly for rest to song.
21
Sometimes thou thrill'st me with delight;
Thy beauty makes it bliss to be,
At dead of noon, or when by night
The stars look gloriously.
Thy beauty makes it bliss to be,
At dead of noon, or when by night
The stars look gloriously.
And sometimes when the quiet breath
Of evening on the mountain blows,
I seem to read thy riddle ‘death,’
So sweet the sadness grows;
Of evening on the mountain blows,
I seem to read thy riddle ‘death,’
So sweet the sadness grows;
The eyes, that are within the soul,
Do read a tale that cannot lie:
For thou hast penn'd it on the scroll
Of that fair even-sky.
Do read a tale that cannot lie:
For thou hast penn'd it on the scroll
Of that fair even-sky.
All these thou givest—a kingly dower—
Yet would I of thy love complain,
Who dost not soothe in troubled hour
The poet's heart of pain.
Yet would I of thy love complain,
Who dost not soothe in troubled hour
The poet's heart of pain.
22
To the tir'd earth night bringeth peace;
And, when they list, the winds are still;
The great heart of the grievèd seas
Beats quiet, when they will:
And, when they list, the winds are still;
The great heart of the grievèd seas
Beats quiet, when they will:
This shore, that tossing sky of thine,
Sleeps safe within the water's breast—
But canst thou calm this heart of mine,
Or teach it so to rest?
Sleeps safe within the water's breast—
But canst thou calm this heart of mine,
Or teach it so to rest?
| Poems by James Rhoades | |