Poems (Dudley)/The Idealist
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.
