Page:History of Oregon Literature.djvu/304

She sent me forth amid the throng
 To toil, to trust and be betrayed,
To war with poverty and wrong,
 To hate, defy and be dismayed.
I heard love's snow-white story, pale
 With sweet delights and blissful fear,
And the dear lips that told the tale
 Turned coldly from me with a sneer;
My holy faith was rudely slain
 In doubt, and clamor and distrust,
In sobs and darkness and in pain
 I saw it buried in the dust.
My dreams of fame—she hid them all
 Like corpses in lone graves at rest,
Amid the crowd I saw them fall,
 Amid the scornful laugh and jest.
For one sweet drop of bliss I plead
 With all the tintless dews and myrrh,
"Love hath a balm for thee," she said,
 "But Sorrow is her messenger."

She sets my face towards the west,
 Still pointing with her purple finger
Where suns are set in wild unrest
 And sable clouds do mourn and linger,
She haunts me when my soul is sad
 And bitter, filled with stings and wrongs,
She taunts me till my spirit's mad
 And madness breathes in all my songs.
I hear the moan of dull, sad seas
 That cannot fall on other ears,
And if my lays seem phantasies
 And sneers too often rhyme with tears;
If in my songs the eagle's shriek
 Doth hush the peaceful, cooing dove,
Still bear in mind I sing and seek
 The wayward truth of human love.