About my father's house,—the gale, my heart out in the night, a flail, beats; thus I used to wake and quail before tossed forests as a child. My little son, oh, hear the storm that roars about you, cradled, warm, and through your dream—my words, wind-borne and wild. Once I too laughed in childish sleep, my son, not waked by lightning's leap, by thunder's bellow, south-wind's sweep; till one grey night. Through the dark forest storm-winds roar as then, as when I heard them soar and like my father's voice they stirred my fright. Hear, how the bristling tree-tops speak and bow their buds with windy shriek; my son, above your cradle's creak the mad storm laughs—oh, hear anew! He never bowed himself in fear! Through the blown boughs he rumbles—hear; Be you! be you! And if your father should, one day, my son, for filial duty pray, do not obey, do not obey: hear how the storm brews Spring in green retreats! Hear, round my father's house,—the gale; my heart out in the night, a flail, beats— | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...YOUNG SAMMY'S FIRST WILD OATS by GEORGE SANTAYANA ASOLANDO: SUMMUM BONUM by ROBERT BROWNING TO THE LAPLAND LONGSPUR by JOHN BURROUGHS TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN: THE FIRST DAY: ROBERT OF SICILY by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW FRINGED GENTIANS by AMY LOWELL |