Poems by James Rhoades :: :: University of Virginia Library

Thy hands are at my throat, thy knee
Knit firm upon my breast;
I am spent, I have no more strength to see:
And thou—what would'st thou more with me,
O Spirit of Unrest?

Time was, thou knowest, I found in thee
A master to my mind,
Chafed under thy light tyranny
No worse than some chid wave at sea,
That bridles to the wind:

O days! when it was joy and pride,
Waking, to hear thee sing
‘Up! up!’ or ever at thy side
To sigh or to be weary-eyed
Was an imagin'd thing.

Nay, thy own waves seemed laggard too,
Thy lightnings slow to run,
So swift the new-born wonder grew,—
Till sudden fell the wings that flew,
And life's desire was done.

Then mad with loss, though lorn of hope,
Thou ledd'st me forth no less,
Too weak to strive—with eyes wide ope
Cast amid life's charr'd ruins to grope
For childhood's palaces.

I saw thee still in cloud and grass,
Short sunshine, shifting snow;
I heard thy voice bid summer pass,
And in my heart thy prayer—‘alas!
Would God that all might go!’

Yet thus, while at thy feet I lie,
My soul one secret knows;
And ‘better,’ my faint lips would cry,
‘To toss in tempest-agony,
Than stagnate in repose.’

Even I, who am grown so weary of thee,
Shall not be all unblest:—
Who lacks not, lives not: it may be
Thou wert the good Spirit to me,
O Spirit of Unrest!