The professor and other poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

O fickle hand, how indolent thou art!
O vacant eyes, how idly ye observe!
What thoughts are these that make my foolish heart
From its dry purpose swerve?

Shall I, who hardly reached the rugged heights
Which others only dream of, shall I lend
This hoarded strength to transient delights,
Delay, return, descend?

Shall I, the first to tread this silent land,
Whose glimmering paths lead upwards unexplored,

Shall I abjure the conquests I had planned,
Let fall the flashing sword?

Within what shameless horrors have I pried,
In cells where law from conscience sits apart!
Only, it seems, I have not classified
The secrets of the heart.

A woman's heart;—I know, in grim array,
Each delicate vein, each ordered ligament,
But ne'er descried the dim and secret way
The rapturous message went.

I seem, methinks, untimely lingering here,
Too tender-hearted, touched with vague surmise;
Shall I grow mild and maidenly, and fear
My victim's piteous eyes?

Nay, more relentless! Could I wrest from life
One secret more that should my purpose serve,
A thousand brutes should feel my icy knife
Prick through each tingling nerve.

My purpose? Ah! the shame! I care not now
For chill humanity, its loss and gain,
I only dream to spare one gentle brow
The lightest touch of pain.