Page:The complete poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar.pdf/70


 * That old wounds, long accounted well,
 * Beneath the memory's potent spell,

Will wake to life and bleed again.

So 't is with me; it might be better
 * If I should turn no look behind,—

If I could curb my heart, and fetter
 * From reminiscent gaze my mind,
 * Or let my soul go blind—go blind!

But would I do it if I could?
 * Nay! ease at such a price were spurned;
 * For, since my love was once returned,

All that I suffer seemeth good.

I know, I know it is the fashion,
 * When love has left some heart distressed,

To weight the air with wordful passion;
 * But I am glad that in my breast
 * I ever held so dear a guest.

Love does not come at every nod,
 * Or every voice that calleth "hasten;"
 * He seeketh out some heart to chasten,

And whips it, wailing, up to God!

Love is no random road wayfarer
 * Who where he may must sip his glass,

Love is the King, the Purple-Wearer,
 * Whose guard recks not of tree or grass
 * To blaze the way that he may pass.

What if my heart be in the blast
 * That heralds his triumphant way;
 * Shall I repine, shall I not say:

"Rejoice, my heart, the King has passed!"

In life, each heart holds some sad story—
 * The saddest ones are never told.

I, too, have dreamed of fame and glory,
 * And viewed the future bright with gold;
 * But that is as a tale long told.

Mine eyes have lost their youthful flash,
 * My cunning hand has lost its art;
 * I am not old, but in my heart

The ember lies beneath the ash.

I loved! Why not? My heart was youthful,
 * My mind was filled with healthy thought.

He doubts not whose own self is truthful,