Poetry Archives

My father got me strong and straight and slim,
   And I give thanks to him;
My mother bore me glad and sound and sweet,—
   I kiss her feet.

But now, with me, their generation fails,
   And nevermore avails
To cast through me the ancient mould again,
   Such women and men.

I have no son, whose life of flesh and fire
   Sprang from my splendid sire,
No daughter for whose soul my mother’s flesh
   Wrought raiment fresh.

Life’s venerable rhythms like a flood
   Beat in my brain and blood,
Crying from all the generations past,
   “Is this the last?”

And I make answer to my haughty dead,
   Who made me, heart and head,
“Even the sunbeams falter, flicker and bend—
   I am the end.”