George Henry Boker Poems

Saint Paul has said this mortal shall arise
Freed from its grossness, palpable in form,
Vital, organic, pulsing with a warm
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I cannot think thou would'st forget me even
Amidst the mystic jubilee above,
My heart's great joy, my closely nestling dove,
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I heard today that one, who sometime reigned
The hauty mistress of my captive will,
Had of that mortal cup which none may spill,
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This is a sorry ending to a thing
We once called love, in our fatuity,
Boasting that nothing worthier could be,
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She who gives all, and yet withholds her heart,
Gives nothing worthy for a man to take--
Gives as the wanton, who for lucre's sake,
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Why should I fret the passion of this string,
Singing to ears that fain would have me mute--
I who have never found the trick to suit
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O World, I owe thee nothing; I have had
Not even my wages from thy niggard hand,
For all I gave thee, at my God's command,
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Yet not because the world turns coldly by,
And makes its idols out of meaner clay,
Decking their shrines with wreaths of noble bay,
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When I review the long procession gone
Out of this being through the gates of death--
The parents, friends, the hearts that drew their breath
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Never, dear season, shall I tire to sing
Of thee whose presence makes my torpid lyre
Glitter and sparkle through its rusted wire
...