Children of the Night

Revelling on for the lone, cold slaughter

An Old Story

Strange that I did not know him then,
That friend of mine!
I did not even show him then
One friendly sign;
But cursed him for the ways he had
To make me see
My envy of the praise he had
For praising me.
I would have rid the earth of him
Once, in my pride! . . .
I never knew the worth of him
Until he died.

We cannot crown ourselves with everything,
Nor can we coax the Fates for us to quarrel:

us, the Children of the Night,
Put off the cloak that hides the scar!

With creeds that make a fiend of Him.

And though the Dawn be still so dim,
It shows us we have played enough

If there be nothing, good or bad,
But chaos for a soul to trust, —
God counts it for a soul gone mad,

No light but for a mortal eye,
No rest but of a mortal sleep,
No God but in a prophet's lie,
No faith for "honest doubt" to keep;

To the Memory of my Father and Mother

1905 printing of the 1897 edition