His pa's romance / James Whitcomb Riley [electronic text]

TOIL

HE had toiled away for a weary while,Thro' day's dull glare and the night's deep gloom; And many a long and lonesome mile He had paced in the round of his dismal room; He had fared on hunger —had drank of pain As the drouthy earth might drink of rain; And the brow he leaned in his trembling palm Throbbed with a misery so intense That never again did it seem that calm Might come to him with the gracious balm Of old-time languor and indolence. And he said, "I will leave the tale half told, And leave the song for the winds to sing; And the pen —that pitiless blade of gold That stabs my heart like a dagger-sting — I will drive to the hilt through the inkstand's top And spill its blood to the last black drop!"

Then he masked his voice with a laugh, and went Out in the world with a lawless grace — With a brazen lie in his eyes and face Told in a smile of glad content: He roved the rounds of pleasure through, And tasted each as it pleased him to; He joined old songs, and the clink and din Of the revelers at the banquet hall;And he tripped his feet where the violinSpun its waltz for the carnival; He looked, bedazed, on the luring wile And the siren-light of a woman's smile, And peered in her eyes as a diver might Peer in the sea ere he leaps from sight, — Caught his breath, with a glance above, And dropped full-length in the depths of love.

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'Tis well if ever the false lights dieOn the alien coasts where our wreck'd hopes lie! 'Tis well to feel, through the blinding rain, Our outflung hands touch earth again!

So the castaway came, safe from doom, Back at last to his lonely room Filled with its treasure of work to do And radiant with the light and bloomOf the summer sun and his glad soul, too! And sweet as ever the song of birds, Over his work he sang these words:—

"O friends are good, with their princely ways,And royal hearts they are goodly things; And fellowship, in the long dark days When the drear soul cowers with drooping wings, Is a thing to yearn for. —Mirth is good, — For a ringing laugh is a rhythmic cry Blown like a hail from the AngelhoodTo the barque of the lone soul drifting by.—Goodly, too, is the mute caressOf woman's hands and their tenderness — The warm breath wet with the dews of love — The vine-like arms, and the fruit thereof — The touch that thrills, and the kiss that melts,—But Toil is sweeter than all things else."