I said to my Soul I would take Nor question the whence nor how, I scorned the Parson's Heaven and Hell; I would live Here and Now. I mocked at Life, and I scoffed at Love— (Love passing, scars left deep) I said 'twere better to laugh and die Than to live long and weep. But I had not reckoned the blood that fed The poor, bruised heart of me, Nor visioned the strength of that crimson thread That could live for a century. I had not counted my mother, Elois, As pure as a lily's breath; Nor my grandmother, Constance, stately and good; Nor the one named Elizabeth; Nor the one who had mothered a bishop son, Whose blood flows in my veins. How could I know that the virtue of them Bound me with forged chains? How could I know that their dear, dead hands Would reach and draw me back Their child—in spite of the grave itself Into the beaten track? I'm teaching the "Corner" school again And I sing in the Methodist choir, And I'm stroking a cat with topaz eyes As I sit and write by my fire. Yet, if "Teacher" is good (as the children say) Freely I here confess, It is not I who am good at all— Perhaps it's Elizabeth ...? |