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Title: Consolation
Author: John Presland [
More Titles by Presland]
"Is there a pain to match my pain
In all this world of woe;
When to and fro on a barren earth
My weary footsteps go?
When no day's sun shall give me mirth
And no stars blessed be;
Because my heart goes hungry and lone
For one who turns from me?"
Hear what the voice of all Sorrows saith
From out the ages dim:
"As melt the snows your passion goes,
And as dew it vanisheth.
Take up, take up your burden of woe,
Unblenching on your journey go,
For man was born to reap and sow
That earth might fruitful be."
"Is there a pain to match my pain,
Who watch the small dead face,
With the folded lips, and the folded lids
And the cheek the dimples grace;
Where they will come no more, no more?--
Oh, small soft hands that hold
So quietly, in rosy palms,
My heart that's dead and cold."
Hear what the voice of all Sorrows saith:
"Though still the little feet,
Though the hands are chill, and the sweet form chill,
And gone the childish breath;
Take up, take up your burden of woe,
For you were born to sorrow so,
To bear in anguish, and lose in pain,
That earth might be fulfilled."
"Is there a pain to match my pain
Who loved all men on earth,
Who saw the Godhead, through the shell
That burdened them at birth;
Who strove for right, who strove for good,
Since love must win at last?
--This hour they lead me out to die,
With cords they make me fast."
Hear what the voice of all Sorrows saith:
"They lead you out to die;
For the love you gave they will dig your grave,
And their thanks to you is death.
Take up, take up your burden of woe,
And proudly to your scaffold go,
For men were born to suffer so,
That mankind might be great."
[The end]
John Presland's poem: Consolation
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