I greet you, son, with joy and winter rue: For you the fatted calf, the while I bind Sackcloth against my heart for siring you At sundown and the twilight. Child, you find A sire sure tired of striving with the winds; Climbing Mount Nebo with laborious breath To view the land of promise through blurred lens, Knowing he can not enter, feeling death. And, as old Israel called his dozen sons And placed his withered hands upon each head Ere he was silent with the skeletons In Mamre of the cold, cave-chambered dead, So would I bless you with a dreamer's will: The dream that battles me, may you fulfill. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...EPITAPH ON THE SECRETARY TO THE MUSES by JANE BARKER INTRODUCTION TO A LADY'S ALBUM by JOHN GARDINER CALKINS BRAINARD LINES by JESSIE GODDARD BROMAN MASTER HUGUES OF SAXE-GOTHA by ROBERT BROWNING EPILOGUE: HURLO-THRUMBO; A PLAY BY SAMUEL JOHNSON by JOHN BYROM |