Heir and Serf
I SAY that I think for myself, but what is this Self of mine
But a chance, loose knot in the skein of life where myriad selves entwine?
One of my fathers died for a faith,
Another one him betrayed,
And hacked at his neck with a bigot's blade . . .
Here, in the house of my being, wraith battles with clutching wraith. . . .
I say that I go alone, but I do not go alone:
Quivers my heart with hatreds not mine own,
And an alien madness crawls in my brain . . .
For wrongs that I never wrought I must still atone,
Blood money I pay for them that I have not slain . . .
Dust that was flesh of mine moulders in many a tomb,
Ghosts that were sires of mine circle me here in the gloom.
I have heard cries through the night in a tongue I cannot speak,
And they knocked on my heart and blanched my cheek . . .
I have dreamed dreams of a temple I cannot name,
Perchance it was Bel that dwelt therein, apparelled in gold and flame . . .
Which is my life the more?—this visible life that seems,
Or the hours when I drift at the whim of a shade through the hurrying bourne of dreams?
Through cities I never saw, a slave among sullen slaves,
I am scourged with knotted whips . . .
Cairns I have raised in an unknown land over mine own white bones . . .
Seas that I never sailed fawn with their leaping waves,
Hailing me fellow with bitter lips,
Promising prey to the beaks of my lean, swift ships. . . .
Runes that I cannot read, I have graven on Druid stones . . .
Omens rush on me out of the blown sea mist,
Flash with the wheeling gulls, call to my blood and are gone . . .
Music I half remember the wind carries by, and I follow,
Flushed, to a tryst . . .
And I have stood shaken and glad, I have trembled and turned to the dawn,
Crying out to Apollo.
I say that I choose for myself, but that is an idle boast,
For here in my house of being ghost is at war with ghost . . .
Old loves and hates at the core of me, old doubts and faiths in the brain,
And salt in the stinging blood of me old lusts revive again . . .
I say that I am myself, but what is this Self of mine
But a knot in the tangled skein of things where chance and chance combine?
But a chance, loose knot in the skein of life where myriad selves entwine?
One of my fathers died for a faith,
Another one him betrayed,
And hacked at his neck with a bigot's blade . . .
Here, in the house of my being, wraith battles with clutching wraith. . . .
I say that I go alone, but I do not go alone:
Quivers my heart with hatreds not mine own,
And an alien madness crawls in my brain . . .
For wrongs that I never wrought I must still atone,
Blood money I pay for them that I have not slain . . .
Dust that was flesh of mine moulders in many a tomb,
Ghosts that were sires of mine circle me here in the gloom.
I have heard cries through the night in a tongue I cannot speak,
And they knocked on my heart and blanched my cheek . . .
I have dreamed dreams of a temple I cannot name,
Perchance it was Bel that dwelt therein, apparelled in gold and flame . . .
Which is my life the more?—this visible life that seems,
Or the hours when I drift at the whim of a shade through the hurrying bourne of dreams?
Through cities I never saw, a slave among sullen slaves,
I am scourged with knotted whips . . .
Cairns I have raised in an unknown land over mine own white bones . . .
Seas that I never sailed fawn with their leaping waves,
Hailing me fellow with bitter lips,
Promising prey to the beaks of my lean, swift ships. . . .
Runes that I cannot read, I have graven on Druid stones . . .
Omens rush on me out of the blown sea mist,
Flash with the wheeling gulls, call to my blood and are gone . . .
Music I half remember the wind carries by, and I follow,
Flushed, to a tryst . . .
And I have stood shaken and glad, I have trembled and turned to the dawn,
Crying out to Apollo.
I say that I choose for myself, but that is an idle boast,
For here in my house of being ghost is at war with ghost . . .
Old loves and hates at the core of me, old doubts and faiths in the brain,
And salt in the stinging blood of me old lusts revive again . . .
I say that I am myself, but what is this Self of mine
But a knot in the tangled skein of things where chance and chance combine?
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