THE FOOLISH OLD MAN
95
At dawn he sprang on his old grey mare
And to their gate went speeding.
Pale at the door stood his daughter fair,
Her beauty was all exceeding.
Hushed in her arms was her son so dear,
As though she feared to lose him—
She laid the babe with a smile and a tear
Upon her father's bosom.
“Now curse, if you will, our good roof-tree
And all that doth lie under,
But spare our child, so dear,” quoth she,
“Or cleave my heart asunder.”
He had no curse for her piteous cry.
But his long lone love confessing,
With dim eyes raised to the morning sky.
He gave—a father's blessing.
