Page:The Soul of a Century.djvu/98

  I oft was seized with a native stubborn pride And tried to rid myself of foreign force, And freely in my own way I had tried, To see the world and seek the Unknown’s source.

To fashion my own God, in thoughts I oft would try, Not like the Semites saw him long ago, But as I sensed him with my inner I And as I saw him, when the skies were set aglow.

But all in vain, to sever all of the ties That grew so closely with every childhood day Ere you’re awoke, around your forehead flies Another cloud of Jordan’s birds of prey.

For thousands of years you have darkened Europe’s air, Discoloring our darkest days it seems Will there come a day, when you will leave for e’er Man’s darkened brows, Palestine’s ancient dreams?

Why must you at my heels forever cling, And follow like a spy, with stealthy gain, You empty image, without form or wing, You, who are less than the breath upon a window pane. Why do you borrow my own form and shape, And even dress in garments that I wear? Why do you parody my looks, why do you ape And why repeat my every move and stare?

Thus in my thoughts I ask, and look aside To where my mocking shadow quakes on the wall again, It seems that even an unkempt lock I spied As his head bends low over the hand that holds the pen. Yet, in that outlined head in yonder nook, My rough sketched image seems to be revealed, My lips’ ironic play, my eyes’ disdainful look, It seems I hear a chuckle, ill-concealed.

I even hear the words of subdued strains, The sound of my own voice I seem to heed, But fainter than the whisper of far off grains, Or the buzzing song, heard from a distant mead. It is more like the language of the soul, That speaks to us with the fathomed dreams of yore, Dreams that into a poet’s bosom stole. When he dipped low into his fancy’s store.