Poems of Purpose — Father and Son

FATHER AND SON

MY grand-dame, vigorous at eighty-one, Delights in talking of her only son, My gallant father, long since dead and gone.

‘Ah, but he was the lad!

’ She says, and sighs, and looks at me askance.

How well I read the meaning of that glance— ‘Poor son of such a dad;

Poor weakling, dull and sad.

’ I could, but would not tell her bitter truth About my father’s youth.

She says: ‘Your father laughed his way through earth: He laughed right in the doctor’s face at birth, Such joy of life he had, such founts of mirth.

Ah, what a lad was he!

’ And then she sighs.

I feel her silent blame, Because I brought her nothing but his name.

Because she does not see Her worshipped son in me.

I could, but would not, speak in my defence, Anent the difference.

She says: ‘He won all prizes in his time: He overworked, and died before his prime.

At high ambition’s door I lay the crime.

Ah, what a lad he was!

’ Well, let her rest in that deceiving thought, Of what avail to say, ‘His death was brought By broken sexual laws, The ancient sinful cause.

’ I could, but would not, tell the good old dame The story of his shame.

I could say: ‘I am crippled, weak, and pale, Because my father was an unleashed male.

Because he ran so fast, I halt and fail (Ah, yes, he was the lad), Because he drained each cup of sense-delight I must go thirsting, thirsting, day and night.

Because he was joy-mad, I must be always sad.

Because he learned no law of self-control, I am a blighted soul.

’ Of what avail to speak and spoil her joy.

Better to see her disapproving eyes, And silent, hear her say, between her sighs, ‘Ah, but he was the boy!

’