Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE ODE OF PERFECT YEARS: 1. FATHERHOOD, by LEWIS MORRIS (1833-1907)


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE ODE OF PERFECT YEARS: 1. FATHERHOOD, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Oh, father! Sitting at thy hearth
Last Line: Even as thou dost these.
Subject(s): Fathers


Oh, father! sitting at thy hearth,
With sunny heads around and lisping talk,
For whom the world without and all the earth
Is nought to this; and to the strong deep love
Which, mixed with pity, all thy soul doth move.
Strong worker, watching o'er the tottering walk
And feeble limbs and growing thought and brain,
Rejoicing in each new-found gain
As the first sire, alone in Paradise;
And patient and content to work all day,
If with the eve returning from thy toil
Thou canst put off the sad world's stain and soil,
And bending downward to thy children's eyes,
Rise cleansed and pure as they.
I know not if life holds a more divine
Or fairer lot than thine.
Strong, patient worker, king of those who can
To its high goal of Things to be,
Its goal of Fate and Mystery,
Lead forth the race of Man!

Thy way is ofttimes hard,
And toilsome oft thy feet;
Thine are the days of anxious care,
When the spent brain reels, or the strong arm tires;
Yet all the ease and charm of days that were,
And Pleasure paling all her fading fires,
Allure no more, but the tired hunter now,
Or now the worker with the furrowed brow
On frozen wastes or sun-struck thou dost show;
By mart, or loom, or mine, or bending down
Chained to thy desk within the stifling town,
Thou toilest daily that thy brood may live.
Cares are thine, cares, and the unselfish mind
Which spends itself for others and can find
How blest it is without return to give.
Whate'er thy race or speech, thou art the same;
Before thy eyes Duty, a constant flame,
Shines always steadfast with unchanging light,
Through dark days and through bright.

Sometimes, by too great misery bowed down,
Or poison-draughts brought lower than the beast,
Thou comest to hate the hollow eyes around,
Dreading thy cares increased,
And dost despise thy own,
And canst thy dead heart steel against their cries,
And mark unmoved the hunger in their eyes;
Or sometimes, filled with love, art powerless to aid.
Oh, misery, to make our souls afraid!

Or if a happier lot
Await thee, yet by precious wells of tears
Thy life's road goes, vain hopes and anxious fears.
Thine 'tis, perchance, to mark the grassy mound
Which keeps, within the churchyard's narrow ground,
Thy darling who is not.
Hopes sunk in tears, tears that ascend to hope;
Such is thy horoscope,
Oh father, standing by the little grave,
And impotent to save!

Thy heart is moved with pity
For thy young growing lives, who needs must come
To leave the safe and sacred walls of home;
For whose young souls, Life, like a cruel city,
Spreads out her nets of sin.
Thou knowest well of old
The strong allurements which they scarce may shun,
The subtle wiles, the innocent lives undone,
The tide of passion, scorning all control,
And thou art filled with an immense despair,
Wherefrom thy heart beats slow, thy eyes grow dim,
As when of yore thou heardst them lisp a hymn
With early childish lips: thou canst not bear
To think of that young whiteness soiled and foul,
Or that thick darkness blotting the young soul.

Yet from thy grief and pain
Comes ofttimes greater gain
Than all thy loss.
Thou knowest what it is to grieve,
And from the burden of thy cross
Thou comest to believe.
Thou who hast lost and yet dost love,
Thou, too, a Father hast in some dim sphere above,
Who doth regard thy joys, thy miseries,
Thy petty doubts of Him, thy feeble learning,
Thy faults, thy pains, thy childish doubt and yearning,
Even as thou dost these.





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