University of Virginia Library

Nearer to him! Well, that is something perhaps—
But nearer also to all fateful dreams,
Closer to terror both by night and day.
Heaven, how I love him! He will never know—
Never—no never through this wretched life
Of weary days and miserable hours
How once a woman loved his very soul.
Aye, his sweet soul—I saw it in his face,
Transfigured as with sorrow and with love,
The day he left me—left me! When I drove,
Hurled, hunted rather, his true heart away.
I saw his very soul—and it was sweet.
Oh, brave, true spirit of one brave, noble man,
What has a woman lost, who thus has lost
The priceless, full possession of thyself?
No other soul will love mine—no true heart
Thus beat for me with bounding, joyous throbs.
I crawl a lonely woman to my grave—
Lonely—a grievous, miserable woman;
A poor, sick-hearted, feeble, wan-cheeked woman.
Lonely, sick, wan-cheeked—for what is a woman
Without the flush upon her cheeks of love?
What is she but a desolate, sorry flower,
Pale by the wayside—white upon a bank,
With petals that the wild wind tears and blows
Far over meadows, topping eerie cliffs,
Out to the sunless breakers of despair?

Or if love comes, it may be wounded love—
Love flushed, indeed, but flushed with pain of scars,
Smitten by swords; rose-red—but thus from battle.
Oh, love, my darling! here am I, but what,
What can I do? A woman may not help
Till warriors need her in the last extreme;
She may not fight—she is not called until
Death stands with her at the forlorn bedside—
Then is she sent for—complimented, perhaps,
Upon her courage or her gentle hands—
So swift in ministry, so soft in tendance—
This she may do, but nothing, nothing more.
The dying spirit she may soothe and bless,
But only help the living at a distance.
By prayers, I think they say—those fittest means
A woman may with decency employ,
But other means she may not: far away,
Sitting at home, she marks the sound of battle,
But may not help a lover till that lover
From head to foot streams, tideway-like, with blood.

Ah, God, why may not women fight—for France:
For France—my lovely France of flowers, to-day?
Why may not I, an English maiden, draw
A steel-blue brand, like passionate Joan of Arc,
And strike for very love of this sweet land
As glorious and as virginal a blow?
Ah, mad—most wild—unwomanly, no doubt—
Here come the tears that do unnerve the arm:
Men must be strong because they cannot weep.

Yet have I that within me—a live fire
Of love for France and “some one” inter-mixed—
Which, had I but the chance, would urge me on,
A maiden breast amid the maiden steel,
Force me to mingle, singing, with the mass
Of surging combatants, and sting my soul
Into hot, blood-stained action, till my palm—
This palm my lover called the lily-palm,
The very flower of lilies—white no longer,
Became an orange lily, or a rose,
Streaked from war's spouting waterfalls of blood.
Oh, I—the English maiden, young and fair,
And soft and sweet and simple—with the eyes
That men write sonnets to—oh, I could dance
Along the glittering rows of armed men;
Laugh with the laughter of the combatants,
Charge with the neighing horses, white with foam,
Yearn with the yearning spirit of battle—smite
Till twenty foes before my feet lay dead.
Then turn and greet my lover with a kiss
That should be soft as ever, albeit my lips
Might kiss an alien crimson to his mouth.
For all the rapture and the ecstacy
That ride like laughing gods upon the waves
Of battle or of any strenuous deed
A woman—trust me—can appreciate more,
Can enter into more than any man.
A man but acts; a woman thinks and loves,
Ponders, takes heed, lays up within her heart.
The mirthful ecstacy of mingled swords,
Could but a woman fight, she would enjoy
Far more than any man—since in one stroke
Her soul would love some lover, and would smite
Some enemy of that fair lover dead:
For woman is all soul, and wholly love.
Buoyant like some fair rose upon the waves
Of rippled, sanguine battle she would ride
With heart the whiter as her hands waxed red,
And soul the softer and the more intent
Upon the tender ways and dreams of love,
As all her bright face gladdened and took fire—
Yea, all the perfume of her inmost spirit
Would float like odours from the trampled flowers
Above the battle-field, and make the spot,
Before so hideous with entangled wrath,
Like Love's fair dwelling-place—like Love's soft bower.
Ah, me, too much—I dream—I dream—I dream.
[She sinks, exhausted with her passion, upon a chair near one of the windows, and looks out over a beautiful country view. She sees soldiers approaching, bearing a wounded man on a litter.
What? is the old sick terror coming true?
Ah! fighting, battle, wrath, and crimson hands
Of urgent maiden—where, where are ye now?
I am again a woman. I am afraid!
[A pause. They come nearer.
The figure and the face—why do I tremble?
Oh, Edward! Edward! Edward! is it thou?
Oh, all my strength forsakes me.
[She clutches a chair wildly.—Knocking at the door outside and confusion.—She rings violently.—To the servant.
Bring that man here.