 | The silver bridge and other poems |  |
74
VICTOR.
True, he was not mine; I could not claim him;
Was he, then, less precious or less fair?
Are we all so selfish and so narrow
That we love but those whose blood we share?
Was he, then, less precious or less fair?
Are we all so selfish and so narrow
That we love but those whose blood we share?
Ten years since, he was a rare and perfect
Type of sweet ideal babyhood;
Like a fairy infant, found by moonlight
In the edge of an enchanted wood.
Type of sweet ideal babyhood;
Like a fairy infant, found by moonlight
In the edge of an enchanted wood.
Like a shining crown upon his forehead
Lay the soft rings of his amber hair;
Never gentle soul had lovelier casket,
Never was a mortal child more fair.
Lay the soft rings of his amber hair;
Never gentle soul had lovelier casket,
Never was a mortal child more fair.
Like a lake's calm quiet in the forest,
Were the peace and clearness of his eyes,—
Full of slumbrous lights and warm, brown shadows,—
Dark, yet not forgetful of the skies.
Were the peace and clearness of his eyes,—
Full of slumbrous lights and warm, brown shadows,—
Dark, yet not forgetful of the skies.
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Then I lost him. Farther toward the sunset
Into childhood's active life he grew,
Finding friends in all things pure and lovely,
Bird, bloom, sunshine, butterfly, and dew.
Into childhood's active life he grew,
Finding friends in all things pure and lovely,
Bird, bloom, sunshine, butterfly, and dew.
Child of poets, how could he be other
Than a subtle poet-spirit, too?
Fine, magnetic, quick to see and follow
Beckonings of the beautiful and true?
Than a subtle poet-spirit, too?
Fine, magnetic, quick to see and follow
Beckonings of the beautiful and true?
Like a fate, unguessed and unforeshadowed,
Dropped upon his life its cruel doom,
While the echo of his laugh still sounded,
And his cheek yet wore its touch of bloom.
Dropped upon his life its cruel doom,
While the echo of his laugh still sounded,
And his cheek yet wore its touch of bloom.
At one moment full of life and archness,
Merry, eager, vigorous, and sweet—
In another, smitten as by lightning—
Lying lifeless at his mother's feet.
Merry, eager, vigorous, and sweet—
In another, smitten as by lightning—
Lying lifeless at his mother's feet.
Yet the last faint effort of his being,
Ere the fluttering life-pulse could depart,
Was to whisper one sweet word of comfort
To her shocked, despairing, broken heart.
Ere the fluttering life-pulse could depart,
Was to whisper one sweet word of comfort
To her shocked, despairing, broken heart.
No sharp pang of lingering pain or illness
Marred his perfect face or thinned his form—
In a moment's space he lay there stricken
Like a lily by a sudden storm.
Marred his perfect face or thinned his form—
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Like a lily by a sudden storm.
Who will rightly, in the clouded future,
Fill his place our commoner souls among?
Who will know the truths he would have told us?
Who will sing the songs he would have sung?
Fill his place our commoner souls among?
Who will know the truths he would have told us?
Who will sing the songs he would have sung?
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