Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE SWORD, by SAMUEL VALENTINE COLE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE SWORD, by                    
First Line: A keen-edged sword in somebody's hand
Last Line: For man till he reaches the utmost—god.
Subject(s): Arms & Armor; Danger; Life; Swords; Weapons; Ammunition


A KEEN-EDGED sword in Somebody's hand;
And keen the edge of the pain it brings;
Long, long ago it thrust, and pricked,
And prodded about at the roots of things.
It searched and troubled the hollows dark,
It troubles the world and stirs up strife,
It troubles the beast of the field and man:
The name of this troublesome sword is—
Life.

The oyster lay like a lump content,
Content with himself and his mud and slime;
The sword thrust under him till at last
He said, "There is nothing to do but climb."
A million of years—for oysters are slow,
And only ask to be let alone—
He climbed; he climbed clean out of his shell,
And, lo! was a fish with a good backbone.

The fish was happy; the fish loved ease,
And lazily paddled the summer sea,
With never a thought of his home in the mud,
And never a dream of what must be.
But pain ran through him, he knew not why;
The sword was there in Somebody's hand;
It pricked him once from the slime to the sea,
It pricked him now from the sea to the land.

He stood a beast with four great feet,
And a yard of tail to follow him round;
Content he was with a beast's content
To eat and drink and lie on the ground.
But the sword was after him still, and still
The old pain racked as it racked before;
The ease he loved seemed never so far,
And all he could do was to climb some more.

For many and many a myriad years
The poor beast climbed; the way was blind;
He wore his yard of tail to a stump,
Then dropped the stump in the woods behind.
His paws grew hands, and he stood erect;
One morning, the sun just over the brink,
There flashed a spark through his beastly brain,
And he said, "I'm a man, for I can think!"

And man loves ease; the Lord knows that;
For oyster and fish and beast combine
To smother his new-born soul of fire
And drag it back to the earth and the brine.
But pain and trouble take hold on man;
The terrible sword doth prick and prod;
He finds no peace, for there is no peace
For man till he reaches the utmost—God.





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