THE FATHER.

The evening found us whom the day had fled,

Once more in bitter anger, you and I,

Over some small, some foolish, trivial thing

Our anger would not decently let die.

But dragged between us, shamed and shivering,

Until each other's taunts we scarcely heard,

Until we lost the sense of all we said,

And knew not who first spoke the fatal word.

It seemed that even every kiss we wrung

We killed at birth with shuddering and hate,

As if we feared a thing too passionate.

However close we clung

One hour, the next hour found us separate,

Estranged, and Love most bitter on our tongue.

To-night we quarrelled over one small head,

Our fruit of last year's maying, the white bud

Blown from our stormy kisses and the dead

First rapture of our wild, estranging blood.

You clutched him: there was panther in your eyes,

We breathed like beasts in thickets; on the wall

Our shadows swelled as in huge tyrannies,

The room grew dark with anger, yet through all

The shame and hurt and pity of it you were

Still strangely and imperishably dear,

As one who loves the wild day none the less

That turns to naught the lilac's miracle,

Breaking the unrecapturable spell

Of the first may-tree, magic and mystery

Utterly scattering of earth and sky.

Making even the rose's loveliness

A thing for pain to be remembered by.

I said: “My son shall wear his father's sword.”

You said: “Shall hands once blossoms at my breast

Be stained with blood?” I answered with a word

More bitter, and your own, the bitterest,

Stung me to sullen anger, and I said:

“My son shall be no coward of his line

Because his mother choose”; you turned your head,

And your eyes grew implacable on mine.

And like a trodden snake you turned to meet

The foe with sudden hissing... then you smiled

And broke our life in pieces at my feet,

“Your child?” you said. “Your child?”...