THE ORIGINAL IMPULSE
If I could lay my head upon
Your breast, where it has never lain,
And know there was an end to pain,
And feel between my clasped hands, one
Slight brown small hand, lean as a boy’s,
And hear the murmur of your voice—
Utterly peaceful, lapped around
With sleepy harmonies of sound,
Forgetful of the wings, the ruth,
The bitter-sick unrest of youth,
The causeless fight that scars the will ...
But there’s the eternal combat still!
The banner struck with darts like sleet,
Implacable before defeat,
And I must fight the bad game through!
So take these verses made for you;
Half-shadowings of the thing I meant,
Blurred visions of a clear intent,
The gems of paste that may not shine,
Romantic gilt, sardonic brine.
And when this agony is past
I shall return to you at last,
From the lost cause—the fruitless quest—
And you will smile and give me rest.
Rest ... and the peace I never knew....
Oh I shall ask great things of you!
So keep this rhyme, and we’ll not quarrel!
Perhaps, next time, I’ll bring you laurel!