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The Fool’s Prayer
Wednesday was World Poetry Day, and though I don’t usually buy into these world days of things, I have decided to share my favorite poem with you. Enjoy.
The Fool’s Prayer
by Edward R. Sill (1841 – 1887)
The royal feast was done; the King
…Sought some new sport to banish care,
And to his jester cried: “Sir Fool,
…Kneel now, and make for us a prayer!”
The jester doffed his cap and bells,
…And stood the mocking court before;
They could not see the bitter smile
…Behind the painted grin he wore.
He bowed his head, and bent his knee
…Upon the monarch’s sllken stool;
His pleading voice arose: “O Lord,
…Be merciful to me, a fool!
“No pity, Lord, could change the heart
…From red with wrong to white as wool;
The rod must heal the sin: but, Lord,
…Be merciful to me, a fool!
“‘Tis not by guilt the onward sweep
…Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay;
‘Tis by our follies that so long
…We hold the earth from heaven away.
“These clumsy feet, still in the mire,
…Go crushing blossoms without end;
These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust
…Among the heart-strings of a friend.
“The ill-timed truth we might have kept –
…Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung?
The word we had not sense to say –
…Who knows how grandly it had rung?
“Our faults no tenderness should ask,
…The chastening stripes must cleanse the all;
But for our blunders – oh, in shame
…Before the eyes of heaven we fall.
“Earth bears no balsam for mistakes;
…Men crown the knave, and scourge to tool
That did his will; but Thou, O Lord,
…Be merciful to me, a fool!”
The room was hushed; in silence rose
…The King, and sought his gardens cool,
And walked apart, and murmured low,
…“Be merciful to me, a fool!”
I like Robert Browning’s “My Last Duchess.”
The last stanza is my favorite.
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace—all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech,
Or blush, at least. She thanked men—good! but thanked
Somehow—I know not how—as if she ranked
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
With anybody’s gift. Who’d stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speech—which I have not—to make your will
Quite clear to such an one, and say, “Just this
Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
Or there exceed the mark”—and if she let
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse—
E’en then would be some stooping; and I choose
Never to stoop. Oh, sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene’er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
As if alive.
He does so well with the understated malevolence.
One of my favorite poems as well. I actually read it for my Reading Aloud from Literature class the first week, way back in the day. Powerful!
Wow , there is so much to know, and I’ll never live long enough to catch up. I never heard of this poet. I’d’a guessed Kipling.
@hypatia My Papa used to read this poem (and many others) to my sister and me; his mother read it to him. There are many, many poems by great poets that are ignored or forgotten. There are great life lessons to be learned from each of them.
Yes, poets and writer s who were once very popular lapse into obscurity all the time. The works that endure are analogous to the famous paintings: think how many of those there must have been floating around, like, during the Renaissance–burned up in house fires (or for fuel!) discarded, disintegrated…human endeavor: so mighty! So ephemeral!
@sockmonkey, I never read that without thinking of the brilliant James Hamilton-Patterson, who has his Gerry Samper character muse that a spa/beauty salon for aging celebs should bear the blazon:
“Work on my looks, ye mighty, and despair!”