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Infant Sorrow
My mother groand! my father wept.
Into the dangerous world I leapt:
Helpless, naked, piping loud;
Like a fiend hid in a cloud.
Struggling in my fathers hands:
Striving against my swaddling bands:
Bound and weary I thought best
To sulk upon my mothers breast.
When I saw that rage was vain,
And to sulk would nothing gain,
Turning many a trick and wile
I began to soothe and smile.
And I sooth’d day after day,
Till upon the ground I stray;
And I smil’d night after night,
Seeking only for delight.
And I saw before me shine
Clusters of the wand’ring vine;
And, beyond, a Myrtle-tree
Stretch’d its blossoms out to me.
But a Priest with holy look,
In his hands a holy book,
Pronouncèd curses on his head
Who the fruits or blossoms shed.
I beheld the Priest by night;
He embrac’d my Myrtle bright:
I beheld the Priest by day,
Where beneath my vines he lay.
Like a serpent in the day
Underneath my vines he lay:
Like a serpent in the night
He embrac’d my Myrtle bright.
So I smote him, and his gore
Stain’d the roots my Myrtle bore;
But the time of youth is fled,
And grey hairs are on my head.