Heredity
More than a fleshly immortality
Is mine. Though I myself return again
To dust, my qualities of heart and brain,
Of soul and spirit, shall not cease to be.
I view them growing, day by day, in thee,
My first-begotten son; I trace them plain
In you, my daughters; and I count it gain
Myself renewed and multiplied to see.
But sadness mingles with my selfish joy,
At thought of what you may be called to bear.
Oh, passionate maid! Oh, glad, impulsive boy!
Your father’s sad experience you must share —
Self-torture, the unfeeling world’s annoy,
Gross pleasure, fierce exultance, grim despair!
Robert Richardson.