Ancestors

ODD, is it not, that little things remain;
The muddy spurs, the hayforks at the door,
The saplings which we planted in the rain
Will still endure when we have gone before;
And all the ways our questing spirits took,
And all the harvests that our powers knew,
Like flowers between the pages of a book,
Will know no more the valleys where they grew.

It must be so; yet something in the breast
Cries out along the highways of the blood,
Voicing the joy laid years ago to rest
In hearts that swam Love’s river at the flood;
I sometimes think all beauty that we know
Some forbear’s courage purchased long ago.

Was it this woman with the powdered hair?
This cavalier with yellow satin vest?

This squire whose ruby knee-buckles I wear?
This soldier with the star upon his breast?
This grim sea-captain with the burning eyes?
This man of God with dreams upon his brow?
This poet who the midnight quill applies
Much as I drive the faltering pencil now?

They may not speak to tell me which of them
Seized upon Life with such immense delight,
Yet all caught at her flying garment’s hem,
And one, at least, ensnared her for a night,
Breathless with victory, nor set her free
Till she had promised joy of life for me.