Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.
By Henry CuylerBunner1225 The Appeal to Harold
H
Judge now betwixt this woman and me,
Haro
She leaves me bond, who found me free.
Of love and hope she hath drained me dry—
Yea, barren as a drought-struck sky;
She hath not left me tears for weeping,
Nor will my eyelids close in sleeping.
I have gathered all my life’s-blood up—
Haro!
She hath drunk and thrown aside the cup.
Haro!
I made them perfect for her praise.
There was no flower in all the brake
I found not fairer for her sake;
There was no sweet thought I did not fashion
For aid and servant to my passion.
Labor and learning worthless were,
Haro!
Save that I made them gifts for her.
Haro!
Give me sweet sleep for brief delights?
Lo, in the night’s wan mid I lie,
And ghosts of hours that are dead go by,—
Hours of a love that died unshriven;
Of a love in change for my manhood given.
She caressed and slew my soul’s white truth,
Haro!
Shall she not give me back my youth?
Tell thou me not of a greater judge,
Haro!
It is He who hath my sin in grudge.
Yea, from God I appeal to thee;
God hath not part or place for me.
Thou who hast sinned, judge thou my sinning:
I have staked my life for a woman’s winning;
She hath stripped me of all save remembering—
Haro!
Right thou me, right thou me, Harold the King!