 | The poems of Richard Henry Stoddard |  |
SISTE, VIATOR.
As I was going on my way,
For every man his way must go,
I met a youth, one sweet spring day,
Who knew me, or who seemed to know;
Bright as a lover when he stands
Where she is in her bridal trim.
“Stop, crown me.” Then with ready hands
I made a rosy crown for him.
For every man his way must go,
I met a youth, one sweet spring day,
Who knew me, or who seemed to know;
Bright as a lover when he stands
Where she is in her bridal trim.
“Stop, crown me.” Then with ready hands
I made a rosy crown for him.
As I was going on my way,
I did not dare to tarry long,
I met a man one summer day,
Of noble bearing, tall and strong:
The light of love was in his eyes,
The spirit of love in every limb.
“Stop, live with me.” I thought it wise
To stop a while and live with him.
I did not dare to tarry long,
I met a man one summer day,
Of noble bearing, tall and strong:
The light of love was in his eyes,
The spirit of love in every limb.
“Stop, live with me.” I thought it wise
To stop a while and live with him.
As I was going on my way,
But slower than when I began,
I met a man, one autumn day,
Ah, such a piteous, poor old man!
I saw his tears, and somehow knew
The grief that made his eyes so dim.
“Stop, comfort me.” What could I do
But stop and try to comfort him?
But slower than when I began,
I met a man, one autumn day,
Ah, such a piteous, poor old man!
I saw his tears, and somehow knew
The grief that made his eyes so dim.
“Stop, comfort me.” What could I do
But stop and try to comfort him?
348
Now I am going on my way,
A chill is creeping over me,
But whether from the winter day,
Or something that I do not see,
Who knows? I feel it stealing near,
A fearful presence, ghastly, grim:
“Stop!” When that dreadful word I hear,
I shall lie down in dust with him.
A chill is creeping over me,
But whether from the winter day,
Or something that I do not see,
Who knows? I feel it stealing near,
A fearful presence, ghastly, grim:
“Stop!” When that dreadful word I hear,
I shall lie down in dust with him.
| The poems of Richard Henry Stoddard | |