She says: 'Your father laughed his way through earth:
He laughed right in the doctor's face at birth,
Such joy of life he had, such founts of mirth.
Ah, what a lad was he!'
And then she sighs. I feel her silent blame,
Because I brought her nothing but his name.
Because she does not see
Her worshipped son in me.
I could, but would not, speak in my defence,
Anent the difference.

She says: 'He won all prizes in his time:
He overworked, and died before his prime.
At high ambition's door I lay the crime.
Ah, what a lad he was!'
Well, let her rest in that deceiving thought,
Of what avail to say, 'His death was brought
By broken sexual laws,
The ancient sinful cause.'
I could, but would not, tell the good old dame
The story of his shame.

I could say: 'I am crippled, weak, and pale,
Because my father was an unleashed male.
Because he ran so fast, I halt and fail
(Ah, yes, he was the lad),
Because he drained each cup of sense-delight
I must go thirsting, thirsting, day and night.
Because he was joy-mad,