You know the story of my birth, the name <br />Which I inherited for good and ill, <br />The secret of my father's fame and shame, <br />His tragedy and death on that dark hill. <br />You know at least what the world knows or knew, <br />For time has taken half the lookers--on, <br />As it took him, and leaves his followers few, <br />And those that loved him scarce or almost none. <br />To me, his son, there had remained the story, <br />Told and retold by her who knew it best, <br />A mystery of love, perhaps of glory, <br />A heritage to hold and a bequest. <br />Ah, how it loved him, that sad woman's heart, <br />What faith was hers and what a martyr's part!<br /><br />Wilfrid Scawen Blunt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/esther-a-sonnet-sequence-xxii/
