A Child of the People And Other Poems. By James Chapman Woods |
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| FAITHLESSNESS.
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 | A Child of the People |  |
160
FAITHLESSNESS.
(Two Phases.)
I.
Now branch the roads; your hand, long held in mine,
Sadly, yet sharply here is drawn away,
As one whose wiser heart constrains to stay,
Whose fate impels across the border line,
Thither, where mellow marriage-tapers shine,
And gathering guests chafe at the hour's delay.
Break hands and go; heed not my thoughts to-day;
Do not yon maids for thee that garland twine?
Sadly, yet sharply here is drawn away,
As one whose wiser heart constrains to stay,
Whose fate impels across the border line,
Thither, where mellow marriage-tapers shine,
And gathering guests chafe at the hour's delay.
Break hands and go; heed not my thoughts to-day;
Do not yon maids for thee that garland twine?
How rich we are! We share the worlds anew;
Take earth and heaven; leave me at least the hells.
How poor we are! You have thoughts to cling to you;
I, thoughts to madden, and your last farewells,
And a blind song my brain beats cadenceto,—
Would I hear first her death or wedding bells?
Take earth and heaven; leave me at least the hells.
How poor we are! You have thoughts to cling to you;
I, thoughts to madden, and your last farewells,
And a blind song my brain beats cadenceto,—
Would I hear first her death or wedding bells?
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II.
Sweet Spring were this, if half its dreams came true.
One timid tender blossom found most fair,
Twin born with dreams, I tend with subtlest care
Far out of sight,—an orange-blossom too,—
Till, in my maiden's eyes a strange soft dew
Sometime makes bold my heart to hers to unbare,
And hers unfolds a sister-blossom there.
Not yet she guesses: First I tell it you!
One timid tender blossom found most fair,
Twin born with dreams, I tend with subtlest care
Far out of sight,—an orange-blossom too,—
Till, in my maiden's eyes a strange soft dew
Sometime makes bold my heart to hers to unbare,
And hers unfolds a sister-blossom there.
Not yet she guesses: First I tell it you!
But ah! I have small faith in flowers of May,
Nor think vows bind the bloom with one breath strown;
For still, in poets' hearts, it is the way
For many a love to wither ere 'tis grown;
And still my heart, that woos this maid to-day,
Finds, oft, to-morrow waiting with its own.
Nor think vows bind the bloom with one breath strown;
For still, in poets' hearts, it is the way
For many a love to wither ere 'tis grown;
And still my heart, that woos this maid to-day,
Finds, oft, to-morrow waiting with its own.
| A Child of the People | |