For one so weary and so old
Has hardly strength to stride or stir;
He can but hold his bags of gold,—
But hug his gold and wait for her.
The two stand still,—stand face to face.
The moon slides on; the midnight air
Is perfumed as a house of prayer—
The maiden keeps her holy place.
Two men! And one is gray, but one
Scarce lifts a full-grown face as yet:
With light foot on life’s threshold set,—
Is he the other’s sun-born son?
And one is of the land of snow,
And one is of the land of sun;
A black-eyed burning youth is one,
But one has pulses cold and slow:
Ay, cold and slow from clime of snow
Where Nature’s bosom, icy bound,
Holds all her forces, hard, profound,—
Holds close where all the South lets go.
Blame not the sun, blame not the snows;
God’s great schoolhouse for all is clime,
The great school-teacher, Father Time;
And each has borne as best he knows.
At last the elder speaks,—he cries,—
He speaks as if his heart would break;
He speaks out as a man that dies,—
As dying for some lost love’s sake:
“Come, take this bag of gold, and go!
Come, take one bag! See, I have two!
Oh, why stand silent, staring so,
When I would share my gold with you?
“Come, take this gold! See how I pray!
See how I bribe, and beg, and buy,—
Ay, buy! buy love, as you, too, may
Some day before you come to die.
“God! take this gold, I beg, I pray!
I beg as one who thirsting cries
For but one drop of drink, and dies
In some lone, loveless desert way.