A PROTEST
I
Just because I claim for woman highest rank and queenliest place
In her glory, in her beauty, in her gentle perfect grace,
Do I grieve to see her stooping to a quest the devil ordains,
For the devil it is who blinds her, and the devil it is who gains.
II
Higher than the highest of angels, so is woman in her power:
Envied of the stars and sunlight, making jealous bird and flower.
When I wrote of Her triumphant, I was thinking of her eyes
With the force of love within them, and the scorn of liars and lies.
III
Just because on her for ever turns the future of the race
I would have her pure, imperial, flawless both in form and face:
With a body like the marble and a rose's mystic power,
Teaching outline to the sculptor, teaching sweetness to the flower.
IV
When I sang of Her victorious, I was dreaming not of those
Whose ignoble hateful handling would deflower the fairest rose.
I was singing of the victory of the passionate God who gleams
In the eyes of English girlhood, and sends angels to her dreams.
V
If my words have been distorted, strained and twisted, misconceived,
It is woman who has suffered, and the singer who has grieved.
Though a larger danger threatens than the keenest pang to one:
For the soul of woman altered, alters flower and star and sun.
