Father and Son by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

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! '