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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=416199" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Because</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">My father and my mother never quarrelled.<br>They were united in a kind of love<br>As daily as the Sydney Morning Herald,<br>Rather than like the eagle or the dove.<br> <br>I never saw them casually touch,<br>Or show a moment’s joy in one another.<br>Why should this matter to me now so much?<br>I think it bore more hardly on my mother,<br> <br>Who had more generous feelings to express.<br>My father had dammed up his Irish blood<br>Against all drinking praying fecklessness,<br>And stiffened into stone and creaking wood.<br> <br>His lips would make a switching sound, as though<br>Spontaneous impulse must be kept at bay.<br>That it was mainly weakness I see now,<br>But then my feelings curled back in dismay.<br> <br>Small things can pit the memory like a cyst:<br>Having seen other fathers greet their sons,<br>I put my childish face up to be kissed<br>After an absence. The rebuff still stuns<br> <br>My blood. The poor man’s curt embarrassment<br>At such a delicate proffer of affection<br>Cut like a saw. But home the lesson went:<br>My tenderness thenceforth escaped detection.<br> <br>My mother sang Because, and Annie Laurie,<br>White Wings, and other songs; her voice was sweet.<br>I never gave enough, and I am sorry;<br>But we were all closed in the same defeat.<br> <br>People do what they can; they were good people,<br>They cared for us and loved us. Once they stood<br>Tall in my childhood as the school, the steeple.<br>How can I judge without ingratitude?<br> <br>Judgment is simply trying to reject<br>A part of what we are because it hurts.<br>The living cannot call the dead collect:<br>They won’t accept the charge, and it reverts.<br> <br>It’s my own judgment day that I draw near,<br>Descending in the past, without a clue,<br>Down to that central deadness: the despair<br>Older than any hope I ever knew.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=James+Phillip+McAuley">James Phillip McAuley</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=416199" data-title="Because de James Phillip McAuley" data-description="My father and my mother never quarrelled.
They were united in a kind of love
As daily as the Sydney Morning Herald,
Rather than like the eagle or the dove.
 
I never saw them casually touch,
Or show a moment’s joy in one another.
Why should this..."></div>
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