Classic Poem

(I WAS made of this and this—
An angel's prayer, a gipsy's kiss.)

My mother bore me prayerfully
And reared me sweet as a gift for God,
And taught me to look shudderingly
On ways my father trod.

They buried him long and long ago
(I just remember his eyes were blue),
He always did—they say who know—
Things it was wrong to do.

He prayed no saints but the Little Folk,
Pan was his only god; ah me,
The times he laughed when my mother spoke
The beads on her rosary!

(I tend my roof-tree and I pray
The Maid who knew a mother's woe
To keep my feet in the gentle way
Her Son would have me go.)

He swore round oaths and drank black gin;
He held four things to his heart's delight:
The hills, the road, his violin,
An open sky at night.

He told strange tales that were never true
(They buried him long and long ago!)
It always seemed the things he knew
Were things it was wrong to know.

He scoffed at walls and a garden plot;
He held three things to his heart's desire:
The river's song, an open spot,
The smoke from a driftwood fire.

(I wonder would I greatly care—
Mary, keep my heart from sin!—
If babe of mine should come to swear
Round oaths and drink black gin?)

I grieve for my mother's every tear,
I weep for the hurt in my mother's breast,
But ever and ever at bud o' year
I love my father best.

(That I had never been made of this—
The angel's prayer, or the gipsy's kiss!)