CLAIRE.
Not so.
For all my woes seem here to merge their flood
Into a sea of infinite repose.
Through France our journey led, as I have told,
From desolation unto desolation.
Naught stayed my father's course — sword, storm, flame, plague,
Exhaustion of the eighty year old frame.
Overtaxed beyond endurance. Once, once only.
His divine force succumbed. 'Twas at day's close,
And all the air was one discouragement
Of April snow-flakes. I was drenched, cold, sick,
With weariness and hunger light of head.
And on the open road, suddenly turned
The whole world like the spinning flakes of snow.
My numb hand slipped from his, and all was blank.
His beard, his breath upon my brow, his tears
Scalding my cheek hugged close against his breast.
And in my ear deep groans awoke me. "God ! "
I heard him cry, ^^ try me not past my strength.
No prophet I, a blind, old dying man ! "
Gently I drew his face to mine, and kissed.
Whispering courage — then his spirit broke
Utterly ; shattered were his wits, I feared.
But past is past ; he is at peace, and I
