Paternity

THE father begins as a king, has music in him
to charm the sullenest night. His thoughts are large
as his gained provinces. His enemies
can move against, not conquer his delight.
Small mutinies he watches like a game,
walks in his garden, plans alliances,
tastes the full savor of accomplished things
in works only begun under his reign.
But should he harp upon his kingship, soon
he learns with pain he can no longer captain
his powers, his hopes. And then he leaves off smiling.
At last the father has no music in him,
but is rough tangled strings that, touched, enlarge
the discord in his heart. For the hour comes
when all the notes are strangled, when he looks
with blind eyes at a closing door, to see
what he loved so confounded and undone,
hanged by its own hair on the treacherous tree,
and cries, all wordless: ‘Oh, my son, my son!’