The Sold
I'll to the dance! what boots it thus,
To brood o'er ills I cannot quell?
Amid the revel shout of mirth,
My bitter laugh shall mingle well.
I've toil'd beside my mates to-day,
To-night we'll join in seeming glee;
But when we part, with morning's light,
For aye, that parting glance will be.
I will not go!—this fire within,
Would choke me with its smother'd flames!
How could I tell the dear ones there,
Of that detested tyrant's claims?
I could endure the fetter's weight,
That I have borne with them so long,—
But not to wear a stranger's chain,
And crouch beneath a stranger's thong.
Yet this must be my morrow's fate!
To part with all that gave my doom,
Dark as it was and desolate,
A ray of light amidst its gloom.
To bear the scourge, to wear the chain,
To toil with wearied heart and limb,
Till death should end my lengthen'd pain,
Or worn old age my senses dim:—
This have I borne, and look'd to bear,
All bitter as such lot must be;
But drearier still my life must wear,
Beneath a stranger's tyranny.
Alas! 't would be a happier lot,
If, ere to-morrow's doom shall come,
My woes and wrongs were all forgot,
Amid the darkness of the tomb.
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Related quotes
The Bereaved Father
Ye have gone from me, gentle ones!
With all your shouts of mirth;
A silence is within my walls,
A darkness round my hearth.
The brightness from my life has gone,
The gladness from my heart!
Alas! alas! that such as you
From home and love should part!
Woe to the hearts that heard, unmoved,
The mother's anguish'd shriek!
And mock'd, with taunting scorn, the tears
That bathed a father's cheek.
Woe to the hands that tore you hence,
My innocent and good!
Not e'en the tigress of the wild,
Thus tears her fellow's brood.
I list to hear your soft sweet tones,
Upon the morning air;
I gaze amidst the twilight's gloom,
As if to find you there.
But you no more come bounding forth,
To meet me in your glee;
And when the evening shadows fall,
Ye are not at my knee.
Your forms are aye before my eyes,
Your voices on my ear,
And all things wear a thought of you,
But you no more are here.
You were the glory of my life,
My blessing and my pride!
I half forgot the name of slave,
When you were by my side!
Woe for the lot that waiteth you,
My victim babes! through life;
Who now shall teach you to bear up
Amidst its bitter strife!
Woe for your lot, ye doom'd ones! woe!
A seal is on your fate!
And shame, and toil, and wretchedness,
On all your steps await!
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works
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Nightfall in Hungary
As when the sun in darkness sets,
And night falls on the earth,
Along the azure fields above
The stars of heaven come forth;
So when the sun of Liberty
Grows dim to mortal eyes,
From out the gloom, like radiant stars,
The world's true heroes rise.
The men of human destiny,
Whom glorious dreams inspire;
High-priests of Freedom, in whose souls
Is shrined the sacred fire.
The fire that through the wilderness
In steadfast lustre streams;
That on the future, dim and dark,
Sheds its effulgent beams.
Thus, oh Hungaria! through the night
That wraps thee in its gloom,
Light from one burning soul streams forth,
A torch above thy tomb.
Thy tomb! oh no -- the mouldering shroud
The worm awhile must wear,
Ere, from its confines springing forth,
He wings the upper air.
Thy tomb! then from its door ere long
The stone shall roll away,
Thou shalt come forth, and once again
Greet the new-risen day.
The day that prayed and waited for
So long, shall surely rise,
As surely as to-morrow's sun
Again shall greet our eyes.
What though before the shape evoked
The coward heart has quailed,
And when the hour, the moment came,
The recreant arm has failed: --
What though the apostate wields the sword
With fratricidal hand,
And the last Romans wander forth
In exile o'er the land: --
What though suspended o'er thee hangs
The Austrian's glittering steel;
What though thy heart is crushed beneath
The imperial Cossack's heel: --
Not to the swift is given the race,
The battle to the strong;
Up to the listening ear of God
Is borne the mighty wrong.
From Him the mandate has gone forth,
The giant Power must fall;
Oh Prophet! read'st thou not the doom,
The writing on the wall!
The slaves of Power, the sword, the scourge,
The scaffold and the chain,
Awhile may claim their hecatombs
Of hero martyrs slain.
But they that war with Tyranny
Still mightier weapons bear;
Winged, arrowy thoughts, that pierce like light,
Impalpable as air.
Thoughts that strike through the triple mail,
That spread, and burn, and glow,
More quenchless than that fire the Greeks
Rained on their Moslem foe.
Rest, rest in peace, heroic shades,
Whose blood like water ran:
For every crimson drop ye shed,
Shall rise an arméd man.
Rest, rest in peace, heroic souls,
Who wander still on earth;
THOUGHTS, your immortal messengers,
Are on their mission forth.
The pioneers of Liberty,
Invincible they throng;
They scale and undermine the towers
And battlements of Wrong.
Speak! Sages, Poets, Patriots, speak!
And the dark pile shall fall,
As at the Prophet's trumpet tones
Once fell the city's wall.
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
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To The Men Of England
Men of England, wherefore plough
For the lords who lay ye low?
Wherefore weave with toil and care
The rich robes your tyrants wear?
Wherefore feed and clothe and save,
From the cradle to the grave,
Those ungrateful drones who would
Drain your sweat -- nay, drink your blood?
Wherefore, Bees of England, forge
Many a weapon, chain, and scourge,
That these stingless drones may spoil
The forced produce of your toil?
Have ye leisure, comfort, calm,
Shelter, food, love's gentle balm?
Or what is it ye buy so dear
With your pain and with your fear?
The seed ye sow another reaps;
The wealth ye find another keeps;
The robes ye weave another wears;
The arms ye forge another bears.
Sow seed, -- but let no tyrant reap;
Find wealth, -- let no imposter heap;
Weave robes, -- let not the idle wear;
Forge arms, in your defence to bear.
Shrink to your cellars, holes, and cells;
In halls ye deck another dwells.
Why shake the chains ye wrought? Ye see
The steel ye tempered glance on ye.
With plough and spade and hoe and loom,
Trace your grave, and build your tomb,
And weave your winding-sheet, till fair
England be your sepulchre!
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Song To The Men Of England
I.
Men of England, wherefore plough
For the lords who lay ye low?
Wherefore weave with toil and care
The rich robes your tyrants wear?
II.
Wherefore feed and clothe and save,
From the cradle to the grave,
Those ungrateful drones who would
Drain your sweat -- nay, drink your blood?
III.
Wherefore, Bees of England, forge
Many a weapon, chain, and scourge,
That these stingless drones may spoil
The forced produce of your toil?
IV.
Have ye leisure, comfort, calm,
Shelter, food, love's gentle balm?
Or what is it ye buy so dear
With your pain and with your fear?
V.
The seed ye sow another reaps;
The wealth ye find another keeps;
The robes ye weave another wears;
The arms ye forge another bears.
VI.
Sow seed,-- but let no tyrant reap;
Find wealth,-- let no imposter heap;
Weave robes,-- let not the idle wear;
Forge arms, in your defence to bear.
VII.
Shrink to your cellars, holes, and cells;
In halls ye deck another dwells.
Why shake the chains ye wrought? Ye see
The steel ye tempered glance on ye.
VIII.
With plough and spade and hoe and loom,
Trace your grave, and build your tomb,
And weave your winding-sheet, till fair
England be your sepulchre!
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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To the Ladies' Free Produce Society
Your gathering day! and I am not,
As erst, amid you set;
But even from this distant spot,
My thoughts are with you yet,
As freshly as in hours forgot,
When I was with you met.
His blessing on your high career!
Go, press unwearied on,
From month to month, from year to year,
Till when your task is done,
The franchised negro's grateful tear
Oh faint you not, ye gathered band!
Although your way be long,
And they who ranged against you stand,
Are numberless and strong;
While you but bear a feeble hand,
Unused to cope with wrong.
Upon your injured brother look,
And nerve ye with the sight!
Could you the good, the gentle, brook
To wear your days in light,
Regardless that by sorrow struck,
He pines in rayless night?
Oh surely 't is a blessed fate,
A lot like that ye bear—
To bid the crush'd and desolate,
Not yield them to despair,
For even amidst their low estate,
Some hearts their sufferings share.
And never your high task forget,
Till they are chainless—free!
Alas! that ye should be so met,
And I not with you be;
Yet sometimes when you thus are set,
One heart may turn to me.
Proclaims your victory won.
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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Spit On A Stranger
However you feel
Whatever it takes
Whenever its real
Whatever awaits me
Whatever you need
However so light
Whenever its real
Whenever its right
[chorus]
Ive been thinking long and hard about the things you said to me
Like a bitter stranger
Now I see the long and short the middle and whats in between
I could spit on a stranger (pull me out)
Youre a bitter stranger (pull me out)
Whatever you feel
Whatever it takes
Whenever its real
Whatever awaits me
Whatever you need
However so slight
[chorus]
Honey, Im a prize and youre a catch and were a perfect match
Like two bitter strangers
Now I see the long and short of it and I can make it last
I could spit on a stranger (pull me out)
Youre a bitter stranger (pull me out)i could spit on a stranger (pull me out)
Youre a bitter stranger (pull me out)
I could spit on a stranger (pull me out)
Youre a bitter stranger (pull me out)
I see the sunshine in your eyes
Ill try the things you never try
Ill be the one that leaves you high, high, high
song performed by by Nickel Creek
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Chain I Gave: From The Turkish
The chain I gave was fair to view,
The lute I added sweet in sound;
The heart that offer'd both was true,
And ill deserved the fate it found.
These gifts were charm'd by secret spell,
Thy truth in absence to divine;
And they have done their duty well,
Alas! they could not teach the thine.
That chain was firm in every link,
But not to bear a stranger's touch;
That lute was sweet, till thou could'st think
In other hands its notes were such.
Let him who from thy neck unbound
The chain which shiver'd in his grasp,
Who saw that lute refuse to sound,
Restring the chords, renew the clasp.
When thou wert changed, they alter'd too;
The chain is broke, the music mute.
'Tis past, to them and thee adieu
False heart, frail chain, and silent lute.
A Stranger In The Night
Key of d
(d) Im lonesome for someone, to (g) kiss me good - (d) night,
Just the way you used to (a7) do,
My (d) achin heart needs someone, to (g) shine loves (d) light,
For without you, Ill (a7) always be (d) blue.
1st chorus
(d) if I (g) dont have you, to (d) help me along,
I (g) know I can never go (d) right,
With - (g) out you beside me, to (d) show me the way,
Im lost, like a (a7) stranger in the (d) night.
Like a lonely dove that flies, from pine to pine,
My heart cant be gay and light,
Like sightless eyes, that will never see the sun,
Im lost, like a stranger in the night.
2nd chorus
Theres no need for me, to even try,
Nothin will turn out right,
When I lost your love, I lost the will to live,
And Im lost, like a stranger in the night
3rd chorus
Like a broken heart, thats lost on lifes sea,
Tho I pray with all my might,
I know I cant face, to - morrow alone,
And Im lost, like a stranger in the night.
song performed by by Hank Williams
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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An Appeal for the Oppressed
Daughters of the Pilgrim sires,
Dwellers by their mouldering graves,
Watchers of their altar fires,
Look upon your country's slaves!
Look! 't is woman's streaming eye,
These are woman's fetter'd hands,
That to you so mournfully
Lift sad glance, and iron bands.
Mute, yet strong appeal of woe!
Wakes it not your starting tears?
Though your hearts may never know,
Half the bitter doom of hers.
Scars are on her fetter'd limbs,
Where the savage scourge hath been;
But the grief, her eye that dims,
Flows for deeper wounds within.
For the children of her love,
For the brothers of her race,
Sisters, like vine branches wove,
In one early dwelling place.
For the parent forms, that hung
Fondly o'er her infant sleep,
And for him, to whom she clung
With affection true and deep—
By her sad forsaken hearth,
'T is for these she wildly grieves!
Now all scatter'd o'er the earth,
Like the wind-strewn autumn leaves!
E'en her babes, so dear, so young,
And so treasured in her heart,
That the chords which round them clung
Seem'd its life, its dearest part—
These, ev'n these, were torn away!
These, that when all else were gone,
Cheer'd her heart with one bright ray,
That still bade its pulse beat on.
Then, to still her frantic woe,
The inhuman scourge was tried,
Till the tears that ceased to flow,
Were with redder drops supplied!
And can you behold unmoved,
All the crushing weight of grief,
That her aching heart has proved,
Seeking not to yield relief?
Are not woman's pulses warm,
Beating in this anguish'd breast?
Is it not a sister's form,
On whose limbs these fetters rest?
Oh then, save her from a doom,
Worse than all that ye may bear;
Let her pass not to the tomb
'Midst her bondage and despair.
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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Kiss Away My Tears
Stranger
Take me out of danger
Be the rearranger
Of my torn down life
Stranger
Burn incense in the room
abolish my impending doom
Release me from my tomb
Massage me with ointment for years
Kiss away my tears
Stranger
Take me out of danger
Be the rearranger
Of my torn down life
Run your fingers through my hair
Write futile notes that say you care
Bathe me soothe me buy me clothes
Kiss me daily on the nose
Stranger
Come into my room
End my thoughts of doom
Resurrect me and loom
Release me from my tomb
Kiss away my tears
Kiss away my tears
poem by Beau Golden
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No Stranger To Love
Cold is the night
Lonely till dawn
Cry for the light
For the love that wont come
You said that youd never
Leave me alone
I gave you my heart
You cried for my soul
An angel wont come
This devil wont go
Something is wrong
I just cant get away
Living on the street, Im no stranger to love
Why cant you see Im no stranger to love
But Im a stranger in your arms
Yes, Im a stranger in your arms
Maybe its right
But I just cant understand
The hurt that I feel
For my love second hand
I know I should leave
But I just cant walk away
Living on the street, Im no stranger to love
Why cant you see Im no stranger to love
Living on the street, Im no stranger to love
Im a stranger in your arms
Living on the street, Im no stranger to love
Why cant you see Im no stranger to love
song performed by by Black Sabbath
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Song Of Life
Sing not of Rest
For heart, or brain, or the strong soul’s emotion
Beneath the shadow of Eternal peace!
There is no rest in Nature or surcease
Of Law, and Labour, in unceasing motion.
Sing not of Rest!
Sing not of Peace
On earth, or in the realms beyond our dreaming!
Progress and Retrogression all things draw
Within the edict of Eternal Law.
Search for the Real which lies beneath the Seeming.
Sing not of Peace
Sing thou of Toil,
Of toil that moulds to-day the larger morrow!
Move with stout heart on Life’s great battle-field
And wear the motto “Progress” on thy shield.
All that is best is won through toil and sorrow.
Sing thou of Toil!
Sing thou of Hope!
Of Hope that lights the world to strong endeavour!
Height beyond height but loftier summits show,
Depth beneath depth reveals a depth below.
Choose thou the best. There is no resting ever.
Sing thou of Hope!
Sing thou of Truth!
That which alone can stand when all is sifted;
That which Humanity in pain and tears
Has sought with patient toil through myriad years,
Till thou shalt see with radiant face uplifted
Eternal Truth.
poem by George Essex Evans
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Stranger In The Wind...
Stranger in the wind...
Beckons at my door.
Stanger in the wind...
Wanting even more.
Stranger in the wind...
Hard to really ignore.
Stranger in the wind..
Making my heart ache, as sore.
Stranger in the wind...
Rapping at my door.
Stanger in the wind...
Who knows i am so poor.
Stranger in the wind...
My time here-has me bore...
Many aches and pains of a thirsting heart...
Can only be quenched by ye, your remembered part.
Stranger in the wind...
My heart, you'll win.
Stranger in the wind...
Yon soul so deep.
Stranger in the wind...
My heart you'll keep.
Stranger in the wind...
my soul you'll reap.
Stranger in the wind...
You make me weep.
poem by Michael Gale
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He Wore Dark Sun glasses
The sun it was not shining and dark gray were the skies
Yet he wore dark sun glasses for to conceal his eyes
From the gaze of other people what was he trying to hide
Since to the mirror of his soul daylight he had denied.
Or maybe his eyes are sensitive to light so dark glasses at all times he must wear
Since seeing one wearing dark glasses on a cloudy morning is quite rare
In sunny weather many wear dark glasses to save their eyes from the sun's glare
On bright and warm Summer days of the sun one must beware.
This morning in the wind and rain it did seem strange to me
A young man wearing dark sun glasses out walking I did see
On such an overcast day sunglasses did seem out of place
If you cannot see a person's eyes you cannot memorize their face.
He may have eyes sensitive to light and have to wear dark glasses every day
But when I said hello to him he had nothing to say
If you cannot see a person's eyes to you that person a stranger remain
And I would not recognize his face were I to see him again.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Christmas
Mother, when christmas comes once more,
I do not wish that you
Should buy sweet things for me again,
As you were used to do:
The taste of cakes and sugar-plums
Is pleasant to me yet,
And temptingly the gay shops look,
With their fresh stores outset.
But I have learn'd, dear mother,
That the poor and wretched slave
Must toil to win their sweetness,
From the cradle to the grave.
And when he faints with weariness
Beneath the torrid sun,
The keen lash urges on his toil,
Until the day is done.
But when the holy angels’ hymn,
On Judea's plains afar,
Peal'd sweetly on the shepherds’ ear,
'Neath Bethlehem's wondrous star,
They sung of glory to our God,—
“Peace and good will to men,”—
For Christ, the Saviour of the world,
Was born amidst them then.
And is it for His glory, men
Are made to toil,
With weary limbs and breaking hearts,
Upon another's soil?
That they are taught not of his law,
To know his holy will,
And that He hates the deed of sin,
And loves the righteous still?
And is it peace and love to men,
To bind them with the chain,
And sell them like the beasts that feed
Upon the grassy plain?
To tear their flesh with scourgings rude,
And from the aching heart,
The ties to which it fondliest clings,
For evermore to part?
And 't is because of all this sin, my mother,
That I shun
To taste the tempting sweets for which
Such wickedness is done.
If men to men will be unjust, if slavery must be,
Mother, the chain must not be worn; the scourge
be plied for me.
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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Last Words
A dreadful darkness closes in
On my bewildered mind;
O let me suffer and not sin,
Be tortured yet resigned.
Through all this world of whelming mist
Still let me look to Thee,
And give me courage to resist
The Tempter till he flee.
Weary I am -- O give me strength
And leave me not to faint;
Say Thou wilt comfort me at length
And pity my complaint.
I've begged to serve Thee heart and soul,
To sacrifice to Thee
No niggard portion, but the whole
Of my identity.
I hoped amid the brave and strong
My portioned task might lie,
To toil amid the labouring throng
With purpose pure and high.
But Thou hast fixed another part,
And Thou hast fixed it well;
I said so with my breaking heart
When first the anguish fell.
For Thou hast taken my delight
And hope of life away,
And bid me watch the painful night
And wait the weary day.
The hope and the delight were Thine;
I bless Thee for their loan;
I gave Thee while I deemed them mine
Too little thanks, I own.
Shall I with joy Thy blessings share
And not endure their loss?
Or hope the martyr's crown to wear
And cast away the cross?
These weary hours will not be lost,
These days of passive misery,
These nights of darkness anguish tost
If I can fix my heart on Thee.
Weak and weary though I lie,
Crushed with sorrow, worn with pain,
Still I may lift to Heaven mine eyes
And strive and labour not in vain,
That inward strife against the sins
That ever wait on suffering;
To watch and strike where first begins
Each ill that would corruption bring,
That secret labour to sustain
With humble patience every blow,
To gather fortitude from pain
And hope and holiness from woe.
Thus let me serve Thee from my heart
Whatever be my written fate,
Whether thus early to depart
Or yet awhile to wait.
If Thou shouldst bring me back to life
More humbled I should be;
More wise, more strengthened for the strife,
More apt to lean on Thee.
Should Death be standing at the gate
Thus should I keep my vow;
But, Lord, whate'er my future fate
So let me serve Thee now.
poem by Anne Brontë
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Esther, A Sonnet Sequence: XVIII
Alas, poor Queen of Beauty! In my heart
I could weep for you and your sad graceless doom.
You stand at my life's threshold in the part
Of king's chief jester in the ante--room,
And none more near the throne. You made us sport
According to your folly, and passed on,
And now you live with pension in Love's Court,
And privilege to jest and wear the crown.
Yes, I could weep for you. Your part it was
To strike the cymbals on a night sublime
For Love's first bridal dance. Alas, alas!
Time, the avenger of our manhood's prime,
Is gathering all life courtiers to his cell,
And you among the rest. So fare you well.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Behold a Pale Stranger
Behold a pale stranger
with white skeletal arms.
A blood red dance
in a mask of death.
Behold a pale stranger
with a cross of misgiving,
a staff of virginal white,
and arms crossed on his chest.
Behold a pale stranger
with a message of pending doom.
A white stallion
with headless rider.
Behold a pale stranger,
an empty shell of life.
7 January 1982
poem by David Harris
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Summer Morning
'T is beautiful, when first the dewy light
Breaks on the earth! while yet the scented air
Is breathing the cool freshness of the night,
And the bright clouds a tint of crimson wear,
Mix'd with their fleecy whiteness; when each fair
And delicate lined flower that lifts its head
Is bathed in dainty odours, and all rare
And beautiful things of nature are outspread,
With the rich flush of light that only morn can shed.
When every leafy chalice holds a draught
Of nightly dew, for the hot sun to drink,
When streams gush sportively, as though they laugh'd
For very joyousness, and seem to shrink,
In playful terror from the rocky brink
Of some slight precipice—then with quick leap,
Bound lightly o'er the barrier, and sink
In their own whirling eddy, and then sweep
With rippling music on, or in their channels sleep.
While lights and shades play on them, with each breath
That moves the calm still waters; when the fly
Skims o'er the surface, and all things beneath
Gleam brightly through the flood, and fish glance by
With a quick flash of beauty—when the sky
Wears a deep azure brightness—and the song
Of matin gladness lifts its voice on high,
And mingled harmony and perfume throng
On every whispering breeze that lightly floats along.—
'T is sweet to wander forth at such an hour,
And drink the spirit of its loveliness;
While on the brow no shadowing care-clouds lower,
And on strong wing the free thoughts upward press;—
Yet there are those whom nature cannot bless,
With all her varied beauty;—such as they,
Whose cup is drugg'd with pain and sore distress,
By their own brother's hand, and the quench'd ray
Of whose lost hopes spreads gloom across the brightest day.
Lo! where, like cattle driven by the lash,
Forth to their wearying task in groups they go;
The mother, lifting up her hand, to dash
The tear-drops from her cheek, that still will flow,
As on her ear her infant's wail comes low,
Yet painfully distinct; and she must leave,—
For the stern overseer wills it so—
Her tender little one unsoothed, to grieve,
Happy to clasp it safe when she returns at eve.
The feeble crone who on her knees hath borne
Her children's grandchildren, is toiling there;
Young forms, and weak old men, whose limbs are worn
Nigh to the grave—strong men, whose bow'd necks bear
Perchance the weight of heavy irons, that wear
Into their very souls;—small heed has he
Who tasks them, of their ills, and none will spare
From the rude scourge—nor old nor infancy—
Who have the allotted toil perform'd imperfectly.
Oh shame upon man's selfishness! that so
The love of gold should canker in his breast,
Transforming his affection's kindly glow
To bitterness, himself into a pest
Upon the earth, the scourge of the oppress'd,
And tyrant of the helpless.—Strange that they,
Who with man's high capacities are blest,
Should, for earth's valueless and tinsel clay,
Thus cast the priceless jewels of their souls away.
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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The Blind Caravan
1 I am a slave, both dumb and blind,
2 Upon a journey dread;
3 The iron hills lie far behind,
4 The seas of mist ahead.
5 Amid a mighty caravan
6 I toil a sombre track,
7 The strangest road since time began,
8 Where no foot turneth back.
9 Here rosy youth at morning's prime
10 And weary man at noon
11 Are crooked shapes at eventime
12 Beneath the haggard moon.
13 Faint elfin songs from out the past
14 Of some lost sunset land
15 Haunt this grim pageant drifting, vast,
16 Across the trackless sand.
17 And often for some nightward wind
18 We stay a space and hark,
19 Then leave the sunset lands behind,
20 And plunge into the dark.
21 Somewhere, somewhere, far on in front,
22 There strides a lonely man
23 Who is all strength, who bears the brunt,
24 The battle and the ban.
25 I know not of his face or form,
26 His voice or battle-scars,
27 Or how he fronts the haunted storm
28 Beneath the wintry stars;
29 I know not of his wisdom great
30 That leads this sightless host
31 Beyond the barren hills of fate
32 Unto some kindlier coast.
33 But often 'mid the eerie black
34 Through this sad caravan
35 A strange, sweet thrill is whispered back,
36 Borne on from man to man.
37 A strange, glad joy that fills the night
38 Like some far marriage horn,
39 Till every heart is filled with light
40 Of some belated morn.
41 The way is long, and rough the road,
42 And bitter the night, and dread,
43 And each poor slave is but a goad
44 To lash the one ahead.
45 Evil the foes that lie in wait
46 To slay us in the pass,
47 Bloody the slaughter at the gate,
48 And bleak the wild morass;
49 And I am but a shriveled thing
50 Beneath the midnight sky;
51 A wasted, wan remembering
52 Of days long wandered by.
53 And yet I lift my sightless face
54 Toward the eerie light,
55 And tread the lonely way we trace
56 Across the haunted night.
poem by William Wilfred Campbell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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