 | The Finding of The Book and Other Poems |  |
246
TO ROBERT JOCELYN ALEXANDER
Suspected all my life of poetry,Late have I come to make confession here—
Late, late indeed, in autumn of my year,
I gather up my sheaves that scatter'd lie,
Some faint far light of immortality
Falling upon my harvest—the severe
Reproachful winds whistling into mine ear,
‘Come, gather up thy sheaves before thou die.’
Sheaves! at that word of valleys thick with corn
I think, and how along their golden line
To Joseph's ev'n his sire's obeisance did!
But thee thy three triumphal years adorn,
Three sheaves of prose and verse—and on my lid
A proud tear trembles for a son like mine.
| The Finding of The Book and Other Poems | |