Poems (Dudley)/The Idealist

by Marion Vienna Churchill Dudley

THE IDEALIST.

THE sweetest lips are oft fore-doomed
 The bitterest cups to drain;
The purest brows are those that wear
 The thorny crowns of Pain.

The fires of martyrdom to-day
 Leap fiercely as of old,
No fagot lent more wrathful heat
 Than, latent, sleeps in cold.

I saw a greedy flame consume
 The whiteness of your cheek,
One moment when you read a thought
 The thinker dared not speak:

Her wrong, not yours, suffused your face,
 Her stealthy thought of blame,
Leaped through the bar ways of her eyes
 And set your soul aflame.

Unkindness undeserved, you feel
 As creatures feel their death,
Borne through the blood-taint in the air
 And caught upon their breath;

Most agony the bullock knows,
 Not in the last dull strife;
But when he learns his Gods were fiends
 Whose kindness sought his life;

So you, O child of many griefs,
 The crowd can never share,
Breathe anguish from a glittering smile,
 And from a glance, despair.

You burn at stakes invisible
 Along the great highway;
Where grosser souls are mirthful, you
 Retire alone to pray.

Each morn some cherished dream endures
 A cross that none may see;
Through many a midnight hour you watch
 In lone Gethsemane.

And yet, I see upon your face
 Warm lines of joy increase;
The light beyond the storm shines through
 Interstices of Peace.

With sure feet walking on the sea
 Eternal, uncreate;
Your poise too light to be submerged,
 Too firm to dissipate;

You heed not barque or fortress;
 Engrossed in mystic lore,
You lift your forehead to the sky,
 And let life's tempest roar;

From thorn-wounds on your head outrays
 The faith their pain has bought;
Though doubt may dig the body's grave,
 No power can kill a thought.

And you, a Thought, incarnate here,
 On ministries of Trust,
Must tread the Sacred Way and scorn
 To run a race with dust.