An Out-Worn Sappho

How tired I am! I sink down all alone      Here by the wayside of the Present. Lo,     Even as a child I hide my face and moan -      A little girl that may no farther go;      The path above me only seems to grow         More rugged, climbing still, and ever briered      With keener thorns of pain than these below;      And O the bleeding feet that falter so          And are so very tired!     Why, I have journeyed from the far-off Lands      Of Babyhood - where baby-lilies blew     Their trumpets in mine ears, and filled my hands      With treasures of perfume and honey-dew,      And where the orchard shadows ever drew         Their cool arms round me when my cheeks were fired      With too much joy, and lulled mine eyelids to,      And only let the starshine trickle through          In sprays, when I was tired!     Yet I remember, when the butterfly      Went flickering about me like a flame     That quenched itself in roses suddenly,      How oft I wished that I might blaze the same,      And in some rose-wreath nestle with my name,         While all the world looked on it and admired. -      Poor moth! - Along my wavering flight toward fame      The winds drive backward, and my wings are lame          And broken, bruised and tired!     I hardly know the path from those old times;      I know at first it was a smoother one     Than this that hurries past me now, and climbs      So high, its far cliffs even hide the sun      And shroud in gloom my journey scarce begun.         I could not do quite all the world required -      I could not do quite all I should have done,      And in my eagerness I have outrun          My strength - and I am tired....     Just tired! But when of old I had the stay      Of mother-hands, O very sweet indeed     It was to dream that all the weary way      I should but follow where I now must lead -      For long ago they left me in my need,         And, groping on alone, I tripped and mired      Among rank grasses where the serpents breed      In knotted coils about the feet of speed. -          There first it was I tired.     And yet I staggered on, and bore my load      Right gallantly: The sun, in summer-time,     In lazy belts came slipping down the road      To woo me on, with many a glimmering rhyme      Rained from the golden rim of some fair clime,         That, hovering beyond the clouds, inspired      My failing heart with fancies so sublime      I half forgot my path of dust and grime,          Though I was growing tired.     And there were many voices cheering me:      I listened to sweet praises where the wind     Went laughing o'er my shoulders gleefully      And scattering my love-songs far behind; -      Until, at last, I thought the world so kind -         So rich in all my yearning soul desired -      So generous - so loyally inclined,      I grew to love and trust it.... I was blind -          Yea, blind as I was tired!     And yet one hand held me in creature-touch:      And O, how fair it was, how true and strong,     How it did hold my heart up like a crutch,      Till, in my dreams, I joyed to walk along      The toilsome way, contented with a song -         'Twas all of earthly things I had acquired,      And 'twas enough, I feigned, or right or wrong,      Since, binding me to man - a mortal thong -         It stayed me, growing tired....     Yea, I had e'en resigned me to the strait      Of earthly rulership - had bowed my head     Acceptant of the master-mind - the great      One lover - lord of all, - the perfected      Kiss-comrade of my soul; - had stammering said         My prayers to him; - all - all that he desired      I rendered sacredly as we were wed. -      Nay - nay! - 'twas but a myth I worshippd. -          And - God of love! - how tired!     For, O my friends, to lose the latest grasp -      To feel the last hope slipping from its hold -     To feel the one fond hand within your clasp      Fall slack, and loosen with a touch so cold      Its pressure may not warm you as of old         Before the light of love had thus expired -      To know your tears are worthless, though they rolled      Their torrents out in molten drops of gold. -          God's pity! I am tired!     And I must rest. - Yet do not say "She died,"      In speaking of me, sleeping here alone.     I kiss the grassy grave I sink beside,      And close mine eyes in slumber all mine own:      Hereafter I shall neither sob nor moan         Nor murmur one complaint; - all I desired,      And failed in life to find, will now be known -      So let me dream. Good night! And on the stone          Say simply: She was tired.