 | The poet, the fool and the faeries |  |
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AGE
Dust and fatigue; and down Life's long hot road
Age and his oxen, groaning with their load,
Pass creakingly: the ever-urging goad
Of want compelling to what unknown end?
What though the fields around be ploughed and sowed;
The orchards burdened till they break and bend,
Meagre for him the harvest God will send,
And what he reaps haply he may not spend.
Age and his oxen, groaning with their load,
Pass creakingly: the ever-urging goad
Of want compelling to what unknown end?
What though the fields around be ploughed and sowed;
The orchards burdened till they break and bend,
Meagre for him the harvest God will send,
And what he reaps haply he may not spend.
What eyes are sadder than the eyes of Age!
That have but labor for their heritage,
And loneliness and loss for toil's long wage;
That by the rushlight Faith still try to read
Their Book of Patience, dimly, page by page,
But find no comfort there that helps their need,
But weariness ever; nothing sweet to feed
Heart's hope upon, or any love to lead.
That have but labor for their heritage,
And loneliness and loss for toil's long wage;
That by the rushlight Faith still try to read
Their Book of Patience, dimly, page by page,
But find no comfort there that helps their need,
But weariness ever; nothing sweet to feed
Heart's hope upon, or any love to lead.
I often think that if God could behold
The sadness here of all Earth's poor and old,
He would not sit so calm as we are told:
If He could hear the souls that pray in vain,
The hearts that perish, crying in the cold,
And of bereavement all the wailing train,
His hand would hush the archangelic strain,
And Heaven sit bowed with pity for Earth's pain.
The sadness here of all Earth's poor and old,
He would not sit so calm as we are told:
If He could hear the souls that pray in vain,
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And of bereavement all the wailing train,
His hand would hush the archangelic strain,
And Heaven sit bowed with pity for Earth's pain.
| The poet, the fool and the faeries | |