Histories

I weary of the histories of men-- The garnered store of books in grim array; Life's bitter salvage, leather-bound, and then Left to the silence and a bloom of gray.

I weary of the stories that they hold; The clash of arms sounds through them like a knell; I weary of the Kings in crowns of gold, The Kings victorious, and the Kings who fell.

There are too many tears on every page; Too red a tide sweeps every chapter in; There is no word of peace in any age, Except the peace that death rode forth to win.

And old unhappiness, long wrapped in sleep, And thrice-armed feud that passed in wrath and woe, And white despair from many a dungeon keep, Arise to haunt us still, where'er we go.

Yet through the years the sun was warm and sweet, And pipers piped at morn, and night and noon,-- And there was carnival with dancing feet, And love and joyance always came in June,--

O, to remember when the pages close-- Linked with the vision of the deathless brave,-- The nightingale, the moonlight, and the rose, And all the beauty that the lost years gave!