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!’