I HAVE no hold on Truth but when, Mired in mirage, Romance may find her. She is so much to many men -- For me, I love but lag behind her. Kiss and caress she mocking flees, At wildfire words she darts to cover: Oh, are there other arts than these Or am I most unmanly lover? Yet, though thrice a day forlorn And at night lone-bedded lying, I've no mind to muse her scorn Nor leisure to prolong my sighing; For, if a woeful wooing this, I a mild Andrew, there is one Pursueth me: a shrew she is As fierce and constant as the sun. Babel and Bedlam knew her name -- She has all elements for feature, All men for mark; she is a dame Who quells the flourish in my nature. Whether she, grim, assault or, bland As certain Vengeance or known Duty, Heap her foul favours in my hand And urge her ugliness for beauty. Of virgin Truth she has no fear, Who courts no coquetry, but binds Herself, strange nun, in the austere Convent of not many minds. O that these twain might joined be As in old time, as in past places! Truth would have more sweet instancy, Reality gain marvellous graces -- Lighting a gleam in Life's wild eyes And with her shaping the ancient sods, As men from more intimate earth uprise Her sons and lovers, her joyous gods. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LETHE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE GOLDEN WEDDING OF STERLING AND SARAH LANIER by SIDNEY LANIER WAITER IN A CALIFORNIA VIETNAMESE RESTURANT by CLARENCE MAJOR ACROSS THE RED SKY by KATHERINE MANSFIELD DOMESDAY BOOK: THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |