Page:A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields.djvu/166

Rh My tears—long time, too long, held back— Force through my fingers and intrude, Like fountains that create a track Through the dead branches in a wood.

After a day of hard constraint, Of folly and of vanity, To languish without any feint Seems sweet to my humanity.

Oh! There's a bitter joy alway In liberty to bear our pangs, And yield ourselves a willing prey To sorrow's torturing deathful fangs.

A bitter joy, to drain the spring Of tears unto the lowest drop, Vanquished,—from fierce despair to wring Its last word or its final sob.

For then, oh then, the glutted grief Leaves a vague rest to hearts it shook, From life no more we seek relief, But to the Ideal only look.

We wheel in space, we float, we swim, By Evening's Spirit rendered free, We change to fleeting shadows dim That hover in immensity.

From death delivers and from shame This freedom with resistless force; We bear on earth no more a name, We dream all dreams without remorse.