My little Son, who look’d from thoughtful eyes
And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise,
Having my law the seventh time disobey’d,
I struck him, and dismiss’d
With hard words and unkiss’d,
—His Mother, who was patient, being dead.
Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep,
I visited his bed,
But found him slumbering deep,
With darken’d eyelids, and their lashes yet
From his late sobbing wet.
And I, with moan,
Kissing away his tears, left others of my own;
For, on a table drawn beside his head,
He had put, within his reach,
A box of counters and a red-vein’d stone,
A piece of glass abraded by the beach,
And six or seven shells,
A bottle with bluebells,
And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art,
To comfort his sad heart.
So when that night I pray’d
To God, I wept, and said:
Ah, when at last we lie with trancèd breath,
Not vexing Thee in death,
And Thou rememberest of what toys
We made our joys,
How weakly understood
Thy great commanded good,
Then, fatherly not less
Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay,
Thou’lt leave Thy wrath, and say,
‘I will be sorry for their childishness.’
Posts Tagged ‘judgment’
The Future Of America by Dennis Allen Lange
Posted in abortion, My Poems, Religious, Villanelle, tagged abortion, babies, bard on the hill, crimson hands, Dennis Allen Lange, don't blush, God, Hitler, holocaust, innocent, Jews, judgment, kill the unborn child, murder, nation, poems, poetry, sins, slaughter, The Future of America, wrath on March 3, 2019| 2 Comments »
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The future of the land seems dark and bleak.
We kill the unborn child, the blameless.
We’ve crimson hands but not the crimson cheek.
Position, power, self are what we seek.
The unborn are not wanted, nameless.
The future of the land seems dark and bleak.
They are the helpless, weakest of the meek.
We’re Hitlers; they’re the Jews and claimless.
We’ve crimson hands but not the crimson cheek.
Ones act by millions; millions for them speak.
The murder streak is wide and tameless.
The future of the land seems dark and bleak.
We’re rootless, superficial, shallow, weak.
We’ve turned from God and so our lives are aimless.
We’ve crimson hands but not the crimson cheek.
Our sins have ris’n to God and heav’n and reek.
We flaunt it to His face; we’re shameless.
The future of the land seems dark and bleak.
We’ve crimson hands but not the crimson cheek.
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photo by Constantin Jurcut at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/meSDQ0O/burning+3
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© Dennis Allen Lange, 2019.
The Bard on the Hill 