My Son

Stronger than man-made bars, the chain,
That rounds your life’s arena,
Deeper than hell the anchor sweeps
That stills your young desires;
Darker than night the inward look
That meditation offers,
Redder than blood the future years
Roll down the hills of torture!

But ah! you were not made for this,
And life is but preluding⁠—
The major theme shall hold its sway
When full awake, not dreaming,
Your ebon foot shall press the sod
Where immortelles are blooming;
Beyond the glaze of fevered years
I see⁠—the day is coming!