At times it seemed to him that those he knew
Had all been wounded, that each savage scar
Recalled some battle fought by parents, who
Had used them, young, to man the marriage-war.
The over-laughing friend so suddenly sad,
The stammerer plunging for a different word,
And there behind that accent, one who had
Lost touch with anything but the absurd;
These, and those desperate others, sought, wild sons,
Love after love that was no love at all:
The tyrant fathers and the weakling ones
Had killed them captive to their mother’s thrall.
Always the loveless parents were to blame;
Or had their childhoods too been just the same?