 | The poet, the fool and the faeries |  |
225
THE RETURN
There was no element of grief
In that old land's stolidity:
No trace of memory, or relief
For heartbreak, in its apathy:
Rather a broad complacency,
A satisfied, plebeian air,
That breathed content and never a care.
In that old land's stolidity:
No trace of memory, or relief
For heartbreak, in its apathy:
Rather a broad complacency,
A satisfied, plebeian air,
That breathed content and never a care.
Yet it was here that youth had died
And love was buried years ago.
There was no hint on any side
Of all that wretchedness and woe.
And I, who thought some trace would show
Upon its face in sympathy,
Read nothing there of tragedy.
And love was buried years ago.
There was no hint on any side
Of all that wretchedness and woe.
And I, who thought some trace would show
Upon its face in sympathy,
Read nothing there of tragedy.
Instead, the birds sang in the trees:
And wood and meadow were a-sway
With gladness of the bounding breeze,
And wildflowers tossing with the day:
The very clouds, in white array,
That swept their shadows o'er the sward,
Looked down a lofty disregard.
And wood and meadow were a-sway
With gladness of the bounding breeze,
And wildflowers tossing with the day:
The very clouds, in white array,
That swept their shadows o'er the sward,
Looked down a lofty disregard.
I sat me down upon a stone,
Beside the tree where once I stood
When love denied me, and alone
My soul groped blindly through the wood.—
I sat me down in solitude
As once before: and sad the years
Assailed my heart with bitter tears.
Beside the tree where once I stood
When love denied me, and alone
226
I sat me down in solitude
As once before: and sad the years
Assailed my heart with bitter tears.
The place was hateful to me now;
That place, which love had so endeared;
Wherein my soul had thought, somehow,
Its search would find what it had feared
Yet longed to find: A record seared
Upon its face. But I could find
Nothing of what was in my mind.
That place, which love had so endeared;
Wherein my soul had thought, somehow,
Its search would find what it had feared
Yet longed to find: A record seared
Upon its face. But I could find
Nothing of what was in my mind.
And while I sat there by the pine
Two children passed—a girl and boy:
His children!—hers!—who should be mine!—
I knew them by their looks of joy:
One had her eyes: without alloy
The other had her golden hair.—
Ah God! it was too much to bear!
Two children passed—a girl and boy:
His children!—hers!—who should be mine!—
I knew them by their looks of joy:
One had her eyes: without alloy
The other had her golden hair.—
Ah God! it was too much to bear!
How could the land sit so serene!
The heaven above look such content!
Tempest and night should set the scene,
And in its midst, made evident,
The heartbreak and bewilderment
Of life; and the futility
Of effort and its agony.
The heaven above look such content!
Tempest and night should set the scene,
And in its midst, made evident,
The heartbreak and bewilderment
Of life; and the futility
Of effort and its agony.
But Nature for all human woe
And suffering has no regard:
She goes her calm way here below
Forever armed, forever barred
Against revealment.—Iron hard.—
So thought I as I turned away. ...
'T was Nature broke my heart that day.
And suffering has no regard:
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Forever armed, forever barred
Against revealment.—Iron hard.—
So thought I as I turned away. ...
'T was Nature broke my heart that day.
| The poet, the fool and the faeries | |