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!’