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The Human Inheritance

The New Hope, Motherhood. By William Sharp
Sharp, William,1855-1905
  
[epigraph]
  
[dedication]

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[section]
  
To E. A. S.
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THE HUMAN INHERITANCE.
  
[prologue]
 I. 
CYCLE I. CHILDHOOD'S INHERITANCE.
 II. 
CYCLE II. YOUTH'S INHERITANCE.
 III. 
CYCLE III. MANHOOD AND WOMANHOOD'S INHERITANCE.
 IV. 
CYCLE IV. OLD AGE'S INHERITANCE.
  
THE NEW HOPE.
  
MOTHERHOOD.
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TRANSCRIPTS FROM NATURE.
 I. 
I. SUNRISE ABOVE BROAD WHEAT-FIELDS.
 II. 
II. THE STONE-BREAKER.
 III. 
III. WILD-ROSES.
 IV. 
IV. LIGHT OF THE SETTING SUN ON MOUNTAIN-ASH BERRIES.
 V. 
V. PINE-WOODS.
 VI. 
VI. THE WINDMILL.
 VII. 
VII. SEA-WRACK.
 VIII. 
VIII. THE BLUE HERON.
 IX. 
IX. SHELLS ON THE SEA-SHORE.
 X. 
X. THE NIGHTINGALE.
 XI. 
XI. THE SWOLLEN RIVER.
 XII. 
XII. MOONLIGHT AT SEA.
 XIII. 
XIII. A DEAD CALM AND MIST.
 XIV. 
XIV. LABOURERS RETURNING HOME.
 XV. 
XV. A GREEN WAVE.
 XVI. 
XVI. MORNING GLORY.
 XVII. 
XVII. DAWN AMID SCOTCH FIRS.
 XVIII. 
XVIII. GROUND-LIGHTNING.
 XIX. 
XIX. THE EBBING TIDE.
 XX. 
XX. THE INCOMING TIDE.
 XXI. 
XXI. TWO OLD YEWS.
 XXII. 
XXII. PHOSPHORESCENT SEA. (I.)
 XXIII. 
XXIII. PHOSPHORESCENT SEA. (II.)
 XXIV. 
XXIV. PHOSPHORESCENT SEA. (III.)
 XXV. 
XXV. MOUNTAIN MISTS.
 XXVI. 
XXVI. MOONRISE.
 XXVII. 
XXVII. MOONRISE.
 XXVIII. 
XXVIII. MOONRISE.
 XXIX. 
XXIX.—PINES IN STORM.
 XXX. 
XXX.—THE LONELY LARCH.
  
THE TIDES OF VENICE.
  
A DIALOGUE.
  
DESOLATION.
  
CHRISTMAS-EVE.
  
LIFE.
  
SIGHT.
  
YOUNG LOVE.
  
DREAM LAND.
  
A GREETING
  
REVELATION.
  
POSSIBILITIES.
  
PAIN.
  
BEN-A-CHAOLAIS
  
SPRING-WIND.
  
TO THE SPIRIT CALLED LAUDANUM.
  
LINES.
  
THE REDEEMER.
  
LAST WORDS.

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174

REVELATION.

Lo, in that shadowy place wherein is found
The pale unreal fruit which men call dreams,
I wander'd. Ever underneath wan gleams
Of misty moonlight faintly shining round—
Long resting on the silent trees as sound
Before awakening, and o'er sedgy streams
Moving like wind in broad and quivering beams—
A spirit walked beside me. From a mound,
Rustling with poplar leaves from top to base,
Some bird I knew not shrilled a cry of dole,
So bitter, I cried out to God for grace:
Then spake that one, While onward thy years roll
Thou shalt be haunted by this hated face—
And looking up I looked on mine own soul.
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