Is ’t strange that in the cycle of his woes,
Which shakes his cloud-embosomed peak of years
And shatters the very fountain of his tears,
He seeks the friendly path of winds and snows?
When Villany forgiven more villanous grows,
And Treason in his robes herself attires,
And Love beneath Adultery’s sheet expires,
Is ’t strange that mating with the Storm he goes?
Father and King! in sooth, they know thee well—
The Whirlwind and the Forest and the Night;
But we who in the obscure shelters dwell
Know better of thy sorrow than thy might.
Father and King! thy heritage is vast;
Wherever children be, its seeds are cast.