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

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.