Verse > William Wordsworth > Complete Poetical Works



          WHERE art thou, my beloved Son,
          Where art thou, worse to me than dead?
          Oh find me, prosperous or undone!
          Or, if the grave be now thy bed,
          Why am I ignorant of the same
          That I may rest; and neither blame
          Nor sorrow may attend thy name?


          Seven years, alas! to have received
          No tidings of an only child;
          To have despaired, have hoped, believed,
          And been for evermore beguiled;
          Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss!
          I catch at them, and then I miss;
          Was ever darkness like to this?


          He was among the prime in worth,
          An object beauteous to behold;
          Well born, well bred; I sent him forth
          Ingenuous, innocent, and bold:
          If things ensued that wanted grace,
          As hath been said, they were not base;
          And never blush was on my face.


          Ah! little doth the young one dream,
          When full of play and childish cares,
          What power is in his wildest scream,
          Heard by his mother unawares!
          He knows it not, he cannot guess:
          Years to a mother bring distress;
          But do not make her love the less.


          Neglect me! no, I suffered long
          From that ill thought; and, being blind,
          Said, "Pride shall help me in my wrong;
          Kind mother have I been, as kind
          As ever breathed:" and that is true;
          I've wet my path with tears like dew,
          Weeping for him when no one knew.


          My Son, if thou be humbled, poor,
          Hopeless of honour and of gain,
          Oh! do not dread thy mother's door;
          Think not of me with grief and pain:
          I now can see with better eyes;
          And worldly grandeur I despise,
          And fortune with her gifts and lies.


          Alas! the fowls of heaven have wings,
          And blasts of heaven will aid their flight;
          They mount--how short a voyage brings
          The wanderers back to their delight!
          Chains tie us down by land and sea;
          And wishes, vain as mine, may be
          All that is left to comfort thee.


          Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan,
          Maimed, mangled by inhuman men;
          Or thou upon a desert thrown
          Inheritest the lion's den;
          Or hast been summoned to the deep,
          Thou, thou and all thy mates, to keep
          An incommunicable sleep.


          I look for ghosts; but none will force
          Their way to me: 'tis falsely said
          That there was ever intercourse
          Between the living and the dead;
          For, surely, then I should have sight
          Of him I wait for day and night,
          With love and longings infinite.


          My apprehensions come in crowds;
          I dread the rustling of the grass;
          The very shadows of the clouds
          Have power to shake me as they pass:
          I question things and do not find
          One that will answer to my mind;
          And all the world appears unkind.


          Beyond participation lie
          My troubles, and beyond relief:
          If any chance to heave a sigh,
          They pity me, and not my grief.
          Then come to me, my Son, or send
          Some tidings that my woes may end;
          I have no other earthly friend!



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