FATHER AND SON

MY grand-dame, vigorous at eighty-one,
Delights in talking of her only son,
My gallant father, long since dead and gone.
‘Ah, but he was the lad! '
She says, and sighs, and looks at me askance.
How well I read the meaning of that glance-
‘Poor son of such a dad;
Poor weakling, dull and sad. '
I could, but would not tell her bitter truth
About my father's youth.

She says: ‘Your father laughed his way through earth:
He laughed right in the doctor's face at birth,
Such joy of life he had, such founts of mirth.
Ah, what a lad was he! '
And then she sighs. I feel her silent blame,
Because I brought her nothing but his name.
Because she does not see
Her worshipped son in me.
I could, but would not, speak in my defence,
Anent the difference.

She says: ‘He won all prizes in his time:
He overworked, and died before his prime.
At high ambition's door I lay the crime.
Ah, what a lad he was! '
Well, let her rest in that deceiving thought,
Of what avail to say, ‘His death was brought
By broken sexual laws,
The ancient sinful cause. '
I could, but would not, tell the good old dame
The story of his shame.

I could say: ‘I am crippled, weak, and pale,
Because my father was an unleashed male.
Because he ran so fast, I halt and fail
(Ah, yes, he was the lad),
Because he drained each cup of sense-delight
I must go thirsting, thirsting, day and night.
Because he was joy-mad,
I must be always sad.

Because he learned no law of self-control,
I am a blighted soul. '
Of what avail to speak and spoil her joy.
Better to see her disapproving eyes,
And silent, hear her say, between her sighs,
‘Ah, but he was the boy! '

End of title

FATHER AND SON

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

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