SONNET

BERNARD WESTERMANN ’08

  Are we but truants from a parent stern—­
    Whose strait commands with fear we long obeyed,
    Till, gladdened by the sunlight, far we strayed,
  And lingered by the woodside and the byrne,
  The bird’s sweet passion at the sun’s return,
    The flower’s grieving at his sight delayed,
  With wistful, long-pent love, to watch and learn,
    Till evening come, and we turn home dismayed?

  Or have we grown unto our fuller seeing,
    The manhood of our days, when evermore
  Our Father speaks and, punishment decreeing,
    Is high and silent from his sapphire door? 
  Forever past, the childhood of our being: 
    He stoops to reason who but spake before.

Literary Monthly, 1908.

THE GOBLIN KING

A BALLAD

BERNARD WESTERMANN ’08

  Beside the grim, the grey, cold sea
    I heard a goblin call to me;
  Beneath a rock, beside the water,
  He cried, “Go pray thy lady daughter
    To bring some wine to me.

  “For coldly runs the salt, salt tide,
    And I am prisoned fast and long,
    And I was wont to feast and song,
  And roaming through the woodland wide.

  “For coldly runs the salt, salt tide,
    And I am wont to have my will,
    And he that brooks it fareth ill,
  When I may roam the woodland wide.

  “Of old, of old I roamed the wood,
    Of old I dwelt in lordly state,
  Before they came, the black-heart brood,
    To make me thus disconsolate.

  “For coldly runs the salt, salt tide,
    And stones are hard that prisons be;
  Yet here in daily hope I bide,
    That one will hear and come to me.

  “They came with drums and dancing fire,
    And wreaths and chants and incense sweet;
  They stole away my heart’s desire,
    That was all fair and lithe and fleet.

  “And coldly runs the salt, salt tide;
    Alone they bound and prisoned me,
  Nor may I taste of aught beside,
    Though well I know the sweets there be.

  “A thousand gnomes brought golden urns,
    With red, red wine and crystal filled;
  And all my couch was flowers and ferns,
    And whatsoever maid I willed.

  “But coldly runs the salt, salt tide,
    And men ride up the high, white road. 
  And many a goodly maid beside—­
    Nor ever glance to my abode.

  “The bee sucks sweetness all the day,
    And dwells in flowers from morn to night;
  But never, never need he stay,
    And never feels he gloom nor blight.

  “But coldly flows the salt, salt tide,
    And I am weary of my breath;
  Though all the world is fair beside,
    And yet I taste nor life nor death.