Poems (Stuart)/The Father
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 thingOur 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 wrungWe killed at birth with shuddering and hate,As if we feared a thing too passionate.However close we clungOne 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 budBlown from our stormy kisses and the deadFirst 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 allThe shame and hurt and pity of it you wereStill strangely and imperishably dear,As one who loves the wild day none the lessThat turns to naught the lilac's miracle,Breaking the unrecapturable spellOf the first may-tree, magic and mysteryUtterly scattering of earth and sky.Making even the rose's lovelinessA 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 breastBe stained with blood?" I answered with a wordMore bitter, and your own, the bitterest,Stung me to sullen anger, and I said:"My son shall be no coward of his lineBecause his mother choose"; you turned your head,And your eyes grew implacable on mine.And like a trodden snake you turned to meetThe foe with sudden hissing . . . then you smiledAnd broke our life in pieces at my feet,"Your child?" you said. "Your child?" . . .