Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold By "F. Harald Williams"[i.e. F. W. O. Ward]. First Edition |
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SECTION VII.
Scarlet and Gold.
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| VIII. |
 | Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold |  |
371
SECTION VII. Scarlet and Gold.
SCARLET AND GOLD.
Scarlet for lips and gold for the tresses,
Balm for the bosom seat of all truth,
Fire for the love and loyal caresses
Burning and shining out of sheer youth;
Snow for the whiteness, heart's infiniteness,
Drawn from the deep
Heavenly mountains' virginal fountains,
Rainbowed with sleep!
Ice of the winter, pledge for the purity
Guarding a jewel sacred from strife;
Terrible coldness, awful security
Sealing the honour dearer than life.
Balm for the bosom seat of all truth,
Fire for the love and loyal caresses
Burning and shining out of sheer youth;
Snow for the whiteness, heart's infiniteness,
Drawn from the deep
Heavenly mountains' virginal fountains,
Rainbowed with sleep!
Ice of the winter, pledge for the purity
Guarding a jewel sacred from strife;
Terrible coldness, awful security
Sealing the honour dearer than life.
Scarlet for lips and gold for the tresses,
Lilies for fair and beautiful arms
Opening with shy and shadowed addresses
Gladly to suffering exquisite charms;
Roses for splendour, spells that surrender
Wholly their bliss;
Seal of all fragrance, vision and vagrance,
Kind as God's kiss.
Day with its breadths for gifts of her lavishment
Not without thorns and clouds in the light,
Night with its purple robe for a ravishment
Mingling the flame and frost in one might.
Lilies for fair and beautiful arms
Opening with shy and shadowed addresses
Gladly to suffering exquisite charms;
Roses for splendour, spells that surrender
Wholly their bliss;
Seal of all fragrance, vision and vagrance,
Kind as God's kiss.
Day with its breadths for gifts of her lavishment
Not without thorns and clouds in the light,
Night with its purple robe for a ravishment
Mingling the flame and frost in one might.
Scarlet for lips and gold for the tresses,
Gray for the English glory of eyes
Lit beyond dreams of all poet guesses,
Fresh with the dew from dawning of skies;
May for her moral, pink of the coral
Warming her cheek
Cunningly painted, sad in a sainted
Aureole meek.
Bloom of the grape, and summer for suavity
Clothing her acts that nothing may bend,
Iron for purpose armed with a gravity
Stately to one predestinate end.
Gray for the English glory of eyes
Lit beyond dreams of all poet guesses,
Fresh with the dew from dawning of skies;
May for her moral, pink of the coral
Warming her cheek
372
Aureole meek.
Bloom of the grape, and summer for suavity
Clothing her acts that nothing may bend,
Iron for purpose armed with a gravity
Stately to one predestinate end.
Scarlet for lips and gold for the tresses,
Breath of the ocean wind for her way
Saucy and sure, the green wildernesses
Wide for the freedom strong and her stay.
Rills for her motion, rocks her devotion
Rooted in trust;
All that is pleasant, in her is present—
Works what it must.
Such are our daughters, gentle and womanly,
Tender and fearless, faithful and true;
Doing their daily services humanly,
Giving to man and the Maker their due.
Breath of the ocean wind for her way
Saucy and sure, the green wildernesses
Wide for the freedom strong and her stay.
Rills for her motion, rocks her devotion
Rooted in trust;
All that is pleasant, in her is present—
Works what it must.
Such are our daughters, gentle and womanly,
Tender and fearless, faithful and true;
Doing their daily services humanly,
Giving to man and the Maker their due.
SWEET AND SEVEN.
I
In the shade of the cottage she drudges and singsAt her toil, sweet and seven,
Like a bird out of heaven,
Though a child yet a woman in trouble that clings;
With no mother to help her, mid hearts as of stone
All alone, all alone,
Yet she waits on her father and works for the rest
With her best, with her best;
And for them bears the load and provides for the morrow
With a matronly wit
And the bosom true knit,
Finding sunshine in sorrow.
In the shade of apartness she suffers and smiles
At the shock of affliction,
For it bears benediction
And in smiting it carries the balm that beguiles;
373
Very strong, very strong,
And it kindles the darkness that has not a name
Into flame, into flame;
And the child that for love labours on without wages
In that infinite trust,
Because only she must,
Has her foot on the ages.
II
Mistress of many,Subject to none,
Maid by a righteous resolve, like a Queen
Forth to the fight she goes bravely as any
Where is the duty or work to be done.
Crowned though unseen;
Sceptred and served with a kingdom her own,
Blessing and blest by the heirs of unrest
Sharing her portion and laid on her breast,
If yet unknown;
Bow to her, vow to her homage that's meet,
Brushing away the coarse dust from her feet.
First in the county,
Last in the care
Dealt to herself on her generous track,
Scattering presents to each of her bounty,
Open as daylight, enough and to spare,
Not coming back;
Beauty and riches and rank to her fall
Doubled, divine by the charms that refine
Charity knowing no boundary line
Saving her all;
Give to her, live to her glory and praise—
Ah, she is higher than honours can raise.
III
She's always longAnd always late,
She never did a tiny wrong
Nor gathered up her skirts to hate;
But just alike in pain and pleasure
374
She metes to all the same mild measure
In grand affairs or bonnet strings;
Her modes and morals, joys and loves
No more important than her gloves,
By some queer squinting or distortion
Lie on one level of proportion.
She never goes
Without a dog,
And has no special friends or foes
Nor thoughts outside the Decalogue;
Distinctly good and dull her marches,
Along the humdrum beaten way,
Avoid the heaven of rainbow arches
And sordid earth and common clay;
Without a colour or a creed
She knows not luxury or need,
A mere appendage to her colley
With no redeeming vice or folly.
IV
Downright black and ugly, Madam—aye and odd;Dreadful, yet a child of Adam and of God;
Not a feature with apology for grace,
Like a creature out of season and of place;
But in spite of many a fault with a pinch of saving salt
In that heterogeneous mixture,
And a sense of duty calm singing through life as a psalm
Not a fancy but a fixture;
O yes, pick her all to pieces,
Pick out every wart and wen,
So unlike your model nieces
Fattening for the marriage pen!
Quite a horror, in the turning of that frame,
Formed as by a madman's churning for some game
To a sample past the rules of finished art
With her ample waist and every shapeless part!
Meant to be a scarecrow, made for the cherry-clack and shade,
375
Hardly with the right to be granted to a toad or tree—
All you say is clear as Cocker!
But when this and worse you utter
In your slander's cruel feast,
Adding too a limp and stutter—
Give me Duty and the Beast.
V
Full of charms her little body,Nothing in it sham or shoddy
Or with any hint of stain,
But in spite of pink and white
And allurements infinite
With a little empty brain;
Very sweet
And very stupid,
Though with all the arms of Cupid
And a parish at her feet—
With her roses and her poses and her dainty upturned nose's
Challenge, which it's doom to meet.
Snow and summer must have married
And in loyal union tarried
On her bosom and her brow,
But no trace within that face
Of one reason for her grace,
Though we all before it bow;
Very fair
And very foolish,
With broad acres at Balhoolish
And a heaven within her hair,
Every section worth protection and a figure of perfection—
Nought but mind that needs repair.
VI
Priscilla is too good to live—Indeed she's ever dying,
With care for weakness fugitive
And errors round her crying;
376
With all the labour she can give
To send our sins a-flying—
It is her one prerogative;
But in her prim and proper sphere
Which nothing vile may enter,
She will forget the Devil here
Who was the First Dissenter.
And if she had a broader plan
Or noted dirty dishes,
And dwelt not in the tiny span
Just bounded by her wishes,
She'd find two sorts of fishes
And some not fit for cooking pan,
Or only food for swishes,
And man at bottom only man;
But by her crystal palace girt
And with her white virginity,
She sees not our divine has dirt—
Though she is pure Divinity.
VII
This is the Baby-woman, see!So exquisite and artless,
As playful as a cat and free—
Though some believe her heartless.
I do not know nor greatly care
If she has real affection,
Or but the semblance and to spare—
It is not worth dissection.
Her face is infantine and sweet,
The life has purple patches;
But when you are not at her feet
A captive, look for scratches.
She says most hard and cruel jests
With manner soft and simple,
And if a wounded soul protests
She answers with a dimple;
Her air is innocence and truth,
As if all girls were sisters
377
But O the blessing blisters!
And so I leave her quite alone,
A white eternal Kitten;
If for these words I must atone,
Be purred on, coaxed and bitten.
VIII
Limp and lazy and with hazy notions of her neighbour's dueBut to self devoutly true,
Calmly taking all and making no addition to out stock—
Not for orphans even a frock,
Not a petticoat or particle
Of one useful winter article;
There she lays her pampered length
And her lax voluptuous strength
On the cushioned couch, and lingers over the last book
With her warm white drowsy fingers and a dreamy look,
Half asleep and half awaking as she idly turns
Still the leaves, awhile forsaking toys for which she burns.
Men are dying, women crying at her very palace door,
But across that easy floor
She would never once endeavour to uplift her languid state
To redeem a soul from fate;
No one yet has seen her mightiness
Troubled, save about mere flightiness,
For some spoiled and petted cat
Or her new Parisian hat;
Then those crumpled carnal members stir and heave the frame
And from out its torpid embers rouse the hidden flame,
As the mountain of indulgence in the glow that gives
Clothing of a strange effulgence for a moment lives.
IX
Tired and tremblingWith a foot that falters on the ground,
378
All the burden that is always found,
As she totters to and fro
With a pleasant word for each,
Cheering hearts within her reach,
Good alike to high and low;
Such is Granny
With her soft and silvered head of frost,
Not without an air uncanny
To the children whom she may accost,
But a treasure to us all
With the wisdom rich and ripe,
And the healing in the stripe
Which at times may lightly fall.
Never fiction
Did devise a comforter so dear,
One whose look is benediction
And to laughter turns the unshed tear;
If she fumbles now and then,
Yet her misses are more true
With the love's compelling clue,
Than more perfect deeds of men.
X
Tall as a lily and red as a roseNever the same for a minute,
Changing her temper or beautiful pose
Ere she has time to begin it;
Always at play in her will and her way,
Laughing and loving and jesting
Up above cares and our homelier snares,
Save in her slumber unresting.
Tall as a lily and red as a rose
And as deliciously fragrant,
Making the ground of each pilgrimage close
Start of some humour more vagrant;
Tawny her hair and alluring the air
Wreathing her path like caresses,
Making each boast he is favoured the most
Whom she the latest addresses.
379
Not without petulant bristles,
Pleasing and pricking impartially those
Gladdened by plums and epistles;
Breezy and blonde and provokingly fond,
Turning on lovers her arrows
Pardoned so much for the delicate touch,
Coaxing the hearts that she harrows.
XI
Too old and timid and an hourly burdenUnto herself and even her closest kin,
She does the little that she can and more
Than thousands with her peaked and palsied fingers
And head that nods in sympathy a tune.
She feels she has outgrown the welcoming
That once outran her services, and turned
The day to pleasure and the night to peace;
And frets to see the puckered brow that gives
But yet denies at heart the grudged attention,
And lips compressed that crying “yea” spell “nay,”
With side-long looks and whispered jealousies
Of place and person. Life is one sad load
For her unequal shoulders, and she bows
Beneath the dull disharmony of things
As one outside the world in which she moves
And has no part or precious interest.
Aloof from all as at a lonely summit,
She hears afar the muffled sounds that break
As on a distant shore, and in the shadow
With great dim eyes of wonderment stoops down
And catches now and then some splintered gleams
Not unfamiliar quite and yet not hers,
And then she gathers up herself in God.
XII
Mocking, graciousWith enchanting airs she walks
Through the world that grows more spacious,
As she moves about and talks;
With a malice
380
When your mouth would meet the chalice
Of her scarlet lips she's gone,
With a bitter taste that fitter
Seems to rankle in the mind,
Like old sheaves of dead rose leaves,
And is all she drops behind.
Is she woman,
Or a witch of ruddy frost,
Admirable, whom yet no man
Loved but ever loved and lost?
Soft, surprising
In the sweetness of her mood,
Then she asks with tantalising
Grace new passion for her food;
And her gleamy eyes with dreamy
Fascinations to you cling,
Till you wake and with the ache
Find you only have the sting.
XIII
Naughty and nice with no feelings of ice,Easily wooed but not won,
Quickest to aid and not bought at a price
Pleasant to all and to none;
Wayward and charming and often alarming
Folks of decorum and nerves,
Yet from the wildest recalled to the mildest
Mood if it succours and serves;
Half of her kitten and half of her boy,
Wholly a puzzle and pet,
Treating you either as king or a toy
Made to adore and forget.
Fixed and uncertain and timid and daring,
As it may humour her ends,
Kindness itself and a torment not sparing
Even the fondest of friends.
Nobody trusts her, nobody hates her,
Always so pretty and glad,
Nobody minds her, nobody mates her,
381
Mischievous, merry, admired and a pest,
Still she has honour and doubting
Going through life and her duties well-drest,
Playing and helpful and pouting.
XIV
She's all elbows and thumbsAnd sharp angles and edges,
With a gaze more than human that measures and plumbs
Your most secret pursuits hid by curtains or hedges;
With an awkward intrusion defying seclusion,
And gathering crumbs
From your library ledges
For the feast (not your asking) of awful unmasking.
And she lives in a rage, every hour, every stage,
With herself and society and its impiety;
For whatever may be must be bad,
Must be sad, must be mad,
And by her to be mended or ended.
O her whisper is warm as an average storm
And as savage,
While a cloud seems to wrap her imperious form
In a passion to plunder or ravage.
She is clumsy of gait but walks straight
As her purpose, and never turns back
From her dark and predestinate track,
In her ire and desire
Which no trouble can tire,
Seeking fuel and food from her murderous mood
While behind her she leaves but dead characters' wrack.
XV
With the stream and the multitude drifting,And with similar straws cut by similar laws
To the same proper shaping and shifting,
But with never a thought of uplifting
To the blue sky above the sweet incense of love;
There she goes,
382
That would not be aspersed by the drop of a puddle,
And shrink back from a muddle;
The same pattern as this one and that one and all,
Like her sofas and chairs, regulation affairs;
At the breakfast and ball
And the afternoon visit and orthodox round,
She is perfectly sound
And delightfully small.
Nothing wrong in her dress, nothing right in her ways
Before heaven and God,
Though she may as she passes just give Him a nod
Now and then, but alas! never prays.
She has plenty of body and something like mind
Under pretty control,
And a beautiful polish and paint on the rind,
But beneath all the varnish and elegant garnish
Not a trace of a soul.
XVI
One of those fleshly women with full lipsOf summer, animal to the finger tips,
With heavy jowl and heaving breasts that pant
In passionate throbs they care not to conceal,
With greedy eyes that chain you and enchant
By messages of what they would reveal;
A magazine of vice; a lustful face,
That bursts upon you like a tropic flower
In all the splendour of its crimson space
And savage beauty and Satanic power
Of sensuous throat, and large voluptuous chin
That rocks upon the waves of her fierce breath
Unschooled to keep its tale of leachery in
And conquering love yet crueller than death.
Large lazy limbs that fit the exuberant frame,
And move to music of the glorious shame
Outshining in each hot lascivious look
And rippling from the mouth in rosy flame,
Burnt in all letters of that human book
And hanging from each little tag and hook.
A furnace fed with fuel of live store,
383
And still fresh fury to the blood impart,
She daily thrives on victims and asks more.
XVII
I was busy, of course, in the sweet of a sonnet,When she came without name, without shame,
Unannounced, with excuses and worse—a new bonnet
And her good-natured face in a flame;
But I wanted a rhyme, not a pitiful reason
Of statistics and facts
And political tracts,
So her presence and poke then were quite out of season
And high treason.
I was going to dine and with visions of wine
And dear faces and turtle,
When she popt in to hurtle
A fresh tale at my head, though the table was spread;
While she kept me in woe, treading on my pet toe,
Till the dinner was ruin
And the cook cross as Bruin,
And each savoury dish done just right to my wish
Was quite spoiled and digestion's implacable foe.
I was starting by train in a hurry and rain,
When she seized my poor buttonhole
And held on,
With some yarn about meats and the mutton-hole
And New Zealand and freezing and sneezing—
Till my last chance was gone.
XVIII
God made her, God bade herSimply to go forth and witness
In her frailty and unfitness,
As He clothed her and betrothed her
To Himself and to no other, mate or brother;
Simply with the message of His love
Ripe and red-hot from above,
From the sunny fountains and the golden mountains
Whence comes down the Holy Dove,
384
So she went
All alone because commanded, single-handed,
With her one sublime intent
Only to proclaim the pact
And the fact,
With the wonder of the awful endless act.
Sisters turned aside, she went and still straight on,
Shipwrecked on the hidden shoal
Oftentimes till all but life itself had gone,
To the goal.
God bade her, God made her
Like Himself at last, in perfect beauty
Of a consecrated will offered whole in good and ill,
And delight of duty.
XIX
Who is here, who is there, with a craze or a crotchet,With a mandate and mission for all,
Or the last bit of news—she is certain to botch it—
And the message that's not from St. Paul?
Who is never at ease and is always in motion
With her peppery tales and the pills of devotion,
Up and down like a carrier's cart,
In your street better known and more heard than her own
And the voice of the backstairs and mart?
With her curious eyes and inquisitive nose
And the foot that despises our weaker repose
Poked in any retreat but your pocket—
Who is this, on each floor and at every door
Which if shut she is sure to unlock it?
To and fro, high and low, as a prophet of woe
She keeps gadding abroad from the pen to the board
On all business excepting the one
That concerns her the most, like an upstarting ghost
When you deem that your worries are done.
At your elbow, when sure now your place is secure,
She is dribbling the scum and the scandal;
385
And like creatures that creep in your innocent sleep
To the bedside she comes with a candle.
XX
Ordered here and there and harried, just to pay a grudgeOwed another but miscarried, everybody's drudge,
Never stayed and still;
Ugly in the eyes of stupid folks who cry her down
Blind as confidence or Cupid, in her homely gown
Darned with dainty skill.
Neat with careworn face she flutters through the hostile house,
Not a word of protest utters, quiet as a mouse
But without its play;
Worked from morn to evening, scolded, and by children chid
With no kindness fenced and folded, even at servants' bid,
Always in the way.
Used, abused, desired, discarded as a worn out tool,
Ridiculed for tears unguarded, never out of school
Nor one moment right;
Pecked at in the very village by the tattler's voice,
Made a field for fun or pillage at her tyrants' choice,
Till the restless night.
Learning truths herself more bitter than the lessons meet,
Shaped to graces fairer, fitter, at her pupils' feet,
Gifts that do outshine;
And by daily loves and losses serving neighbours' need,
Lifted as on Christ-like crosses in her patient creed
To the peace Divine.
XXI
Scorched by Indian skies, and pinched and paleWith the burden of the years
Writing in each line a passion tale,
Fought afar with hopes and fears;
Moulded by the trial and denial
386
To the texture of a true heroic sort
That will somehow ere it reach the Port
Leave a name.
She has travelled long on sea and land
And been tost about the globe,
Which has felt the impress of her hand
With the trailing of her robe,
And is rich and sweeter and yet meeter
From her touch
Laid upon it like a queenly law,
Taking little from the wealth she saw,
Giving much.
Scarred by sorrow that would shadow forth
In the tightening of the mouth,
But with all the fibre of the north
Wedding sunshine of the south;
Built to stature full and tall and fair,
Out of tempest, fire, and larger air.
XXII
Scarlet-lipt with warm blood flowingFull and generous and free,
As if summer prime were blowing
In some heavy-blossomed tree,
Where through queaches wild and reaches
Roam the butterfly and bee;
Dusky-haired, though gold threads glitter
In the tangles dim and coy,
Making those deep shadows fitter
Thus to be a monarch's toy;
Like a gipsy, who is tipsy
With the wine of human joy;
There she stands a goddess blushing
Over with the life that runs
Madly through the bosom, flushing
With the fire of Orient suns,
At my hidden hope and chidden
Praises that she courts and shuns.
Ah, the love, that through the channels
387
Mocks at social bars and pannels,
Yet will drink its splendid due
In a passion beyond fashion—
If I only find the clue.
XXIII
Mark how carefully adjusted and correctLooks the frock that is entrusted to protect
This most precious piece of goods,
Hawked and higgled up and down and not worth your half a crown,
Fashion's pride, not womanhood's!
She indeed becomes the clothing meant for use
And at last beneath is nothing but excuse
For a life without defence,
An apology for stuff lining mantles or a muff
And a paltry art's pretence.
Peg for hanging on the jewels cold as she,
Or the fancy work and crewels that agree
With a nature small and thin;
All outside and labelled clear, “Going for so much a year,”
Painted cheeks and pointed chin.
Just the product of a little lying stage,
Bubble-wise with tenure brittle of a page
Turned when downright troubles press,
With the lusts that fret and leap and if charming yet are cheap,
Not a woman but a dress.
Admirably made to order and the price
Which the market may command,
Hovering sweetly on the border of the vice
Prudence only does withstand.
XXIV
Bow to the maid with a mission,Place for the mandate of heaven,
Though to society's fission
And with an earthlier leaven!
Up with the woman, and down with the man
388
Cook him alive in equality's pan,
Warmed with his own pretty fires Calvinistical!
No more election of males, but affection
Free as the breezes and broad as the sky,
Room in a boundless new world with no groundless
Barriers raised that admit not reply!
Liberty here for the slave and the chattel
Treasured and duped for a moment of joy,
Ransomed at length and all armed for the battle,
Fetterless, wise, and no longer a toy!
Rifled of jewels and trifled with long,
Treated as children to sweetmeats and song,
Cloyed with the surfeit of sugar and praise
Meant to repress her and not to upraise,
Fooled with the story of compliments hoary
Binding the wings that were spreading for flight,
Now she surprises herself and arises
Forth to the riches of honour and right.
XXV
Millions they say she is worth, but her hatClearly a home-fashioned article,
Kindness to all from the king to the cat
But of mere self not a particle;
Shabbilydrest, but the world in her breast
Carried to toil for and honour,
Just as if Christ laid upon her
Care for the least whether lost or the beast.
Homely of features but finding all creatures
Everywhere fellows and friends,
Working with God along paths that He trod
But to His merciful ends;
Bearing the burden alone as her guerdon,
Opening her heart to the knife
Edged for the stricken who suffer and sicken,
Watching and living the life.
Ever in hidden low channels though chidden,
Runs like a river of gold
Charity wide as from Love's riven side
389
Millions they tell us she owns, but her jacket
Utters impossible things,
Gives her the look of a badly-tied packet—
Over angelical wings.
XXVI
She is one of the masses and lost in a crowdAnd just nobody still,
But yet one of God's lasses and pretty and proud—
The machine of a mill;
A mere item in numbers and reckless and young,
With some melody fresh
From her maculate slumbers that trips on her tongue
And belief in the flesh.
She is ready for Handel and takes her own part
In a concert or strife;
And, though ripe for a scandal, at times in her heart
Beats the music of life.
On her head is no bonnet or hat, but her own
Is the beautiful hair
With the sunshine upon it, and carelessly thrown
A shawl out of repair.
And her dark eyes defiant that cheerily face
The whole world without fears,
Though they look so reliant relax in soft grace
And will melt into tears.
If her language is shocking and fingers can strike
She is woman in all,
And all hell in her mocking and heaven alike
Lie beneath that red shawl.
XXVII
See not the ill in her, only the millinerSlaving from dawn to the night,
Turned as a flower to the light,
Crumpled and faded, by sickness invaded,
Yet with some dew and delight.
Up at her lattice she sews,
Watching her shroud as it grows
Under white fingers—no task of her lingers—
390
Look at the will in her, only a milliner
Outside the tumult and babble and whirl,
Far from the story of man and the glory,
Yet by the calendar nought but a girl.
Yet in her teens and as proudly as queens
Treasuring stores on the shelf,
All for a living with some left for giving,
Working and keeping herself.
Brand not the ill in her, should the poor milliner
Play with the morals we serve
And from propriety swerve—
Say, by a hair's breadth—say, by a stair's breadth;
Ah, she is only a drudge,
And but a step is between heaven and hell, if unseen;
Leave her to God, who is Judge.
XXVIII
Here is to the Bluestocking,All health and wealth and reason's dress
And every kind of happiness,
Except a husband and the cradle-rocking!
She's half a folio, half imbroglio
In that dear head with Girton pap
So fed and fuddled, mixed and muddled,
That life to her is strata, stones and bones
And dreadful gases, lectures, laws and classes
All jumbled up like China's map.
And yet we love you, sweet Blue Buskin,
With spectacles and skimpy hair,
Not only for the spice of Ruskin—
Your independence makes you fair.
For you are English to your short frock's hem
In teeth of thoughts and virtues bound in vellum,
And to the last whorl of your cerebellum—
Yes, though I praise you not, I can't condemn.
And though your tameless virgin freedom
Assumes a funny form
And savours of the robber Edom,
It makes a tea-cup storm;
391
Than part with you.
XXIX
She is plain as York Minster,Weather-beaten and wrinkled and grave,
Just a spinster,
But a bulwark in trouble and brave;
Though her dress might require an apology,
And defies the commands of chronology,
A born hater of nothing but sin.
She is awkward and wrangles a bit and all angles,
And her nose may encroach on her chin;
Yet in spite of her roughness and manifest toughness,
There's an angel within.
While you flourish in plenty and carefully nourish
The mere flesh on the loaves and the fishes,
She may pass you a solemn memorial column
Or at most with a bow and good wishes.
But in darkest extremity
When false comrades like rats are clean gone,
She would fly to the Valley Yosemite
To relieve you a bit or help on.
She looks harder than nails, but can soften
In your sorrow with sympathy deep—
Aye, and often
When we're tucked in the blankets asleep,
She will nurse by the dying and weep.
XXX
Miss Coquette!She is pleasant and pure
At her heart, though she still may forget
To be always devout and demure
When she could and she should and she would,
If you only had talent to stop her
And she were not a trifle improper,
Our sweet privileged pet, the delightful Coquette.
When I look at her eyebrows so arched
And her foot that keeps restlessly tripping,
I forgive her for casual slipping
392
For her dear little nose of celestial pose
Is upturned to the stars as if native,
And her mutinous lips and her fingers' red tips
Are at times a delicious donátive;
And though fribbles may fret,
It is only Coquette!
She is pretty, of course—it's her duty,—
Though the brightness be half of her beauty;
And when fogeys and frumps become dismal as dumps,
Because she is with lovers beset
And goes splash from one trouble head first into double,
I observe, “It is only Coquette!”
XXXI
O, she is always careful, trust her wit and sherry!And sometimes not unprayerful, when disease is merry
Among the sheep and cattle, and the roots look queer
And men begin to tattle o'er the glass of beer.
Broad-bosomed, with square shoulder to the storm she stands
And meets its blast the bolder with hard working hands,
To issue from it brightened by each adverse part
Though with a pocket lightened yet with stouter heart.
She notes with watchful glances weather and the maid,
And does not lose her chances and is always paid;
She knows the market matters and the proper price,
And bread she freely scatters is no sacrifice
Returning in its season to her profit book,
And all the right of reason lurks in every look.
By paring and by pinches grows the goodly pile,
And with its waxing inches her metallic smile
That smacks of prudent scraping and the solid hoard,
And then the pious draping grace to bless the board!
But still, despite her daily lust for more and more
She can deal out as gaily from her treasure store,
And to the starving cottage while she screws her pence
She takes no meagre pottage if at pounds' expense;
And while in golden vision yet the gain mounts up,
She gives with glad decision brimming plate and cup.
393
XXXII
I know nothing so sweet as her pout,And the pulse of her patter, the chime of her chatter—
Don't they charm away cobwebs of doubt,
And relieve the worst pinches of gout?
For the Baby is Queen in the gray and the green
Of December and June, and sets all things in tune,—
There is not a house furnished without.
For the husband, if lord of the strife,
Is yet swayed by his dutiful wife,
And the will of the mother is checked by another—
By the Baby that governs her life.
Here is She,
With that simple and innocent dimple inspiring no awe,
Fair and free,
But still breathing commandments and wreathing us round with her law.
Can't you see, it's not we with our clumsier ruling
And our old legislation and impotent fooling
Or occasional sop, who are truly at top?
We are helplessly feigning,
While the Baby below is the prop
And as autocrat reigning.
We have Royalty, Peers and the Commons, the Press:
But the Baby apparelled in utter undress,
Is our fate and the State.
XXXIII
Sparkle through the branches of the fountain,Fragrance of the heather on the hill,
Frolic laughter where across the mountain
Carves the stream a pattern at its will
Green and glowing, with its flowing, flowing,
And the footstep that is never still;
Thus I make my picture of the English girl
Sweetly country-born and country-bred,
With her sense of guidance overhead
Shining through the tumble and the daily whirl
And the shadows lavishly outspread,
As the rift of blue among the clouds that swirl.
394
As they bear it from the neighbouring well;
Brave and merry, though the bird can find no berry
And forgets the song it used to tell;
Red-lipt, so that sweetest kisses love her;
Gray-eyed, as the English heavens above her;
With the freedom of the wind that lights her face,
And keeps time with each imperious pace;
Nowise daunted, howsoever taunted
By the trials of her troubled lot;
Fresh and fervent, everybody's servant
And afraid of nothing, but a blot.
XXXIV
The spirit of a Dorcas and the mightOf the pure matron (Rome was patron)
Who mothered heroes for the death or fight,
Meet on her comely face in one delight.
The clergywoman! with her kindly glance
That has sweet leaven of high Heaven,
But yet can linger on the earthly dance
And in the world doth conquer circumstance.
All honour to that pleasant busy form
Which in the quiet seeks its diet,
For ever winning and for ever warm,
And on her bosom bears the alien storm.
See how she walks her humble lowly way
And thoughtful carries help and tarries
In cottage gloom alike to feed and pray,
And gently guides the footstep that would stray.
She never grudges of her little store
And ready basket (none need ask it),
Or pious precepts out of sacred lore,
And leaves new light where it was night before.
Ah, I have seen a beauty on her brow,
Not on the splendid head attended
By rank and wealth, to which the myriads bow—
The blessing of the Lord: I see it now.
395
XXXV
“New,” but not “woman,” a sign and an omen,Sinister, sexless, ill-famed;
Horribly rising from habits surprising,
Naked, and yet unashamed!
Turn from her, learn from her how not to trifle
So with the sacred and sweet;
Mark in her, hark in her where we may stifle
Modesty under the feet!
Never a figleaf, tiny or big leaf
Now for the leprosy show;
Nothing but crudity, nothing but nudity,
Flaunting the blemish below!
Masculine, muscular, coarse and crepuscular,
Revelling still in the shades—
Edge of impurity, saddling futurity
Lightly with all that degrades!
Nebulous, bibulous, crapulous crank,
Daily dehumanised, frisky,
Dabbling in deeps that are rotten and rank,
Sourly unfeminine, risky!
You are a rumpled black rosebud, a crumpled
Scion of Sodom or Heth,
Nameless and tameless and aimless and shameless,
O you disease or new death!
XXXVI
Wan and weary, with the long and dull and drearyGilded season that began without a reason,
And will end without one brief regret;
Lo, she trifles with the pleasant hour, and rifles
Of their honey man and mignonette;
Sips her cup of Mocha coffee or affliction,
Riseth up and lieth down with malediction
Of the most impartial sort and sweep,
Drawled from lazy lips and mind that has a hazy
Unfledged notion that strong language is a potion
Ministering to relief or sleep.
Not unloved by two or three and not ungloved,
Though her stays and starch are hardly taxing
396
Dawdling on till the next tedious joy is gone;
Sometimes flirting, sometimes by rosewater squirting
Compliments opprest with sickly breath,
Worn and worried, but by earthquakes even unhurried,
Tickled as by butterflies to death.
Bored and flattered with amusements, freely scattered
And as brightly, on her passage daily, nightly;
Seizing moments' rapture as they fly,
In her fated eyes she keeps unsoothed, unsated,
All the langours of Eternity.
XXXVII
Brown as sun and wind can make her,Not uncomely, not unmeet
For the homely tasks that take her
Here and there with mind discreet;
With the pottage of the cottage
And the endless conquered care
Waxing stronger, in the longer
Stress of strife and frugal fare.
Motherly, a drudge, big-breasted
And with equal thews and skill,
While the babies unarrested
Yet keep adding to the bill.
All a tragedy's emotion,
All a tigress's devotion
Lurking under the plain gown,
And below the soil and grimmer
Seams a semblance like the glimmer
Coming from a martyr's crown;
Rough and rude as Nature nude,
Shaped and shaken by the winter's
Frost and storm to sturdy form,
While mere buffets break as splinters
On resolve; in act and face,
Tossed and tumbled to wild grace.
XXXVIII
With book in hand, and on her guarded faceThe ten commandments keeping down the lace
397
That need the fetters of phylacteries,
She seeks the early service; at the feast
Always the foremost quite, nor yet the least
In rapt responses chanted to the Throne
Besieged by murmurs of her monotone,
Like faint sweet incense rising clear and calm;
With dim suggestions of the crown and palm,
Above a cross that has a doubtful hue
And smacks of pasteboard under skies too blue
For heavens outside her fancy. Matin's bell
Brings her grave legal step, and knows her well;
And never, never, did she wreak the wrong
Of absence from the joys of Evensong,
With priestly robes and rites not all revealed
To her monastic gaze, nor yet concealed,
And genuflexions dear to the poor flesh
Which asks abasement if it sins afresh.
She lives within a shrine of painted glass,
Through which the earth and all its glories pass
And give her what she knows of human things—
Blurred and distorted by fair shadowings.
XXXIX
Fair—yes, fairWith the scarlet scorn upon her lips,
And her golden hair
Proud and properly arranged—
Not a thread estranged;
Words that can and do at seasons fall as whips.
Tall and queenly
With the cultured look,
Like some blazened book
Of a gentle and heroic page,
Which has travelled down serenely
Centuries of sword and song,
And has gathered up in this last age
All its goodly heritage.
Faultless in the rich attire,
Conscious of her rank
398
Stretched between the mob and her calm crowned desire;
Holding out the sceptre now and then
To a favoured few,
Suffered to ascend the starry stair
Just a step or two within her courtly ken;
If from that diviner bloom and dew,
She stoops down awhile to lower air.
XL
Cold as the charity that with the purseBegins and ends, doled out so much a day,
And has no part in heart or generous usage
Rooted in love and that large sympathy,
Which marries class to class and builds a bridge
Whereby the humblest may pass into peace
And in his measure taste delight; a thing
Of starch and stays, conventionalities
And parsimonious breath that in mid-sunshine
Withdraws the welcome and damps down the fires.
Ashamed of Nature and its naked bliss
And innocences of stark healthy life
Where passion is all purity; afraid
Of letting go the hand that holds the rule
And rigid safeguards of correct cast-iron.
She dares not ever to be quite herself
And ties her feelings to the forms she knows,
The apron-strings of sour authority;
But still is others' mask, her priest, her wet-nurse,
Reflected in the tepid shallowness
Which is her soul and whole. No liberal blast
Beats on her hide-bound platitudes of creed,
Or ruffles with its glorious challenge once
Her calculated loves and pieties.
XLI
Under the gas, without credit or class,Reckless in wrong,
Haunted by evil and taunted by pride,
Slinking along;
Yet with the shadow of shame at her side
399
Her in her heart with the judgment that drags
Down to the darkness at length—if it lags.
Pretty enough for a kiss
Or the gloves
That your purse would not miss,
But whom nobody loves;
Friend of an hour, fair as a flower
With the sentence upon it,
Good for a jest—with too open a breast,
But not worth a bonnet.
Ah, on the pavement
She finds her one home and her business and plot,
And the life that is not—
Venal enslavement;
Though beneath brass and the reek of stale wine,
While she is powdered and painted and tainted
Fresh for her lot,
Still is the spark of a splendour divine.
XLII
Beautiful thing, hiding the stingLeft by the sneer in the bosom that rankles,
Crippled and yet with the neatest of ankles,
Sweet as a lark and as ready to sing;
Ay, and as soaring
Upward, adoring
Love that has wried and disfigured her frame,
Letting the shame
Darken a life which is guiltless of blame.
O from the eyes and pure lips of red coral
Grace that is moral,
Grace that is power
Bursts into splendour and breaks into flower.
Broad is the forehead, and brilliant the glance
Whispering treasures of secret romance,
Eager to ope the great tideways of hope
Armed for adventure and fired to advance.
Beautiful still under the ill
Clouding her sky,
400
Though with the thoughts that as eagles do fly
Far from the bounds of imprisoning flesh,
Straight to the glorious
Silence that's God, over weakness victorious.
XLIII
Here is brown Jenny,Madcap and romp,
Only a beggar—but give her a penny
Grudged not from comfort, that she would think pomp!
Ragged she is and malicious she looks,
Saucy and stained with the weather engrained,
Spurning the books
We with more civilised tastes reckon high;
Yet at her crossing,
Yet with the tossing
But of a broom to make gentlefolks' room
Cleanly, to God she is surely as nigh,
Simpering madam
Swelling in silks, as are you with your purse,
Equally dear and a daughter of Adam
Under the common blue sky and the curse.
Bright with her blarney the maid of Killarney
Offers you smiles and most innocent wiles;
But if she's rich in her glory and bloom,
Where is the broom?
I prefer Jenny,
Towsled and tattered and naughty and spattered
Freely with mud (from which glimmers the bud)
Over all girls from Cape Cod to Kilkenny.
XLIV
She never had a chance; her hopeless lifeBurst all unwished and blasted into being,
With every woe and foe that wickedness
For ages educated could confer,
And want with its grim heritage of crime.
Damned at the start, and with a curse foredoomed
To sin and suffering beyond reach of help,
She sucked in poison with her mother's milk
401
She came into a world of hate and evil,
Stamped as the devil's own indelibly,
And herded with wild beasts and fared and fought
For just a pittance, as did they and died
Daily the death of shame insufferable
And lied and swore and marketed her body
To any bidder. Vice is meat and drink;
She hears not once the tale of purity
Nor feels its presence and exceeding power;
She sees no gentle love. But yet at times
There is a flutter in her breast of wings
That fain would rise, and in her ears an echo
Of distant strains and solemn symphonies
Sounding through tears and maledictions deep,
And then she sinks beneath her slough again.
XLV
Against the darkness thrown out pure and whiteShe walks her lily way,
A point of hope in horror infinite
Where all are far astray.
The night around her heaves broad splashes up
Of awful inky gloom,
And though she drains alone the deadly cup
No shadow dims her bloom;
Which seems to grow yet brighter and more fair
Among the dirt and din,
Immaculate in that mephitic air
And sweeter from the sin.
For oft those wolfish eyes that on her glare
And feel the chasm so wide,
Behold together with the cross of care
An angel at her side;
Or even the One whom blindly we adore
Perfected by the pain,
Who went Himself a blacker way before
And gathered not one stain.
But at her presence oaths to blessings turn,
And all disarmed is hate;
402
Anointed, separate.
XLVI
Most helpless of all helpless things,Thou baby child,
Yet with a dower and awful power
Enjoyed by every little flower
But not by kings,
Because thy breast is undefil'd!
Ah, who shall guess
The curve thy pretty wings may take
When they forsake
Their shelter, and in fear awake
To see their own great loveliness,
And poise a moment ere they try
Their maiden strength and outward fly,
Bathed as in all Eternity?
O whither then
Among the works and ways of men,
Wilt thou with treasure more than gold
Direct thy flight,
Or where unfold
Those charms that tremble to the light?
Perhaps on paths that none have trod
Thy beauty waits to play a part,
To break a kingdom or a heart
Or guide a wandering soul to God.
XLVII
A true Domestic!When her mistress needs
Her service, smart and with an eye that heeds
The smallest blot, and in the room majestic
With company and silver at her hand;
Then every inch a queen,
Admired when seen
As born to greatness and command.
Observe the calm and serious face,
The head
Well poised, and each quick attitude a grace,
403
And in the comprehensive eye
What dignity!
But then
When work is done and all the strain is over,
She drops the mask and gambols among men
The wildest rover,
And flings decorum to the winds; and rude
She flits and flirts, no more a stately form,
About the kitchen in a little storm
Of quips and laughter,
Free'd from the stays of servitude
And the hereafter.
XLVIII
In the thick of the turmoil I turnFrom the business and babble and knife,
And the fires of affliction that burn
Their deep messages into my life;
From the hateful and mean, and I lean
On the love and the prayers of my wife.
For a moment my heart,
Set apart
From the strife, feels a mystery solemn,
And the walls of a temple upstart
With the stillness of cloister and column,
In a wonder of white
Infinite.
And her saintly calm face of pure love
Looking down
From the glamour and glow of a crown
Lifts me high to her summits above;
Out of care and the glare and the carking
Petty worries and barking
As of dogs at my heels,
To the blessing that steels.
I return to the load like a hod,
With new might and a mystical sight—
All is mingled with her and with God.
404
XLIX
Omnisapient surely is thisFunny growth,
Half a man, half a woman, but scorning a kiss—
Or a little of both.
Here are Oxford and Girton boiled down
With the “Martyrs' Memorial,”
And the “Lady's Pictorial”
With the cap and Academy gown;
To produce such a curious cult,
And result!
I feel nervous and Mervous and more,
As I hearken in shadows that darken
To the torrent of terrible lore,
Which this monster part cherub, part chicken,
Ladles out from her store;
Ah, I sicken
At the thought of my ignorant state,
While she carries debate
Into regions undreamt of by me
And horizons unbounded and blessings to be.
Yet, it's well
After all and I don't feel so small,
When I note on her back in her wonderful track
Just a fragment of yesterday's shell.
L
English mother, with the serious blue grey eyesAnd their sober look of England's clouded skies,
Irish women do their part
Pouring passion and the heart
Into all their nursing and maternal skill,
And the joy of fancy round their cradle lies;
But you only have the secret more than art,
And the will.
It is well, to be an English mother's child
Wrapt in folds and folds of care from buffets wild,
Tucked in warmly safe and sound
With her jealousy around,
Shielded from the shadow of a fear or fall
405
Cuddled to her very life and all enwound
With her all.
Oft I long to feel an English mother's breast,
In the many hours of darkness and unrest;
And with this dull fretting pain
To be rocked awhile again,
On the sweetest pillow which to Heaven is clue;
And when I by earthly care am overprest,
Just to see in English eyes as washed by rain
God's grey blue.
LI
Is it daytime, darling, is it nightUnder that sealed curtain where no hour is certain,
Though it's always light?
Dost thou mark the morning with its grey adorning
Strewing pearls upon the eastern sky,
As a carpet for the sun
On his royal way to run,
In the circle of eternity?
Is it evening, sweet, or purple dusk
Where the magic moonshine pours the waves like noonshine
From its silver husk?
Can'st thou catch a glimmer, when our eyes are dimmer,
Of that vision which in splendour drops
Over the enchanted Space
Which is God's own blessed face,
On the silence of the mountain tops?
Ah, my dearest, thou dost truly note
Ecstasies of being with a perfect seeing,
Ransomed from each mote;
Far beyond our gazing in a Dawn amazing,
Thou dost freely range abroad and find
Ready to thy heart and hand
Glimpses none can understand
Of that glory, to which we are blind.
406
LII
Gone the love that was a shelterFrom the cruel heat,
And a comrade in the welter
Of the battle seat;
Where sharp fears, like hostile spears,
Grimly on the bosom beat.
He is gone, alas, and on
Thou must weary for the sight
Of some friend or saving end
And the never-coming light;
While the sun sits on the rock and rill,
And thou art a bird dismated still.
But a Husband for thee tarries,
Waiting for His hour
And the faith in Him that marries
Thee and brings new dower;
When things die, He passes by
In the fulness of His power,
Watching for the opening door
And the timid outstretched arm,
If the life in tumbling strife
Feels His choosing and the charm;
He is now a-wooing at thy side,
And thou art His blessed heavenly bride.
LIII
They went down in the battle and the wavesSwept over them and she,
The beautiful and free,
Was left to water with her tears their graves;
But yet she lived, the little only—
And yet she loved, the little lonely—
One who should rather have been taken first;
While all her empty heart, that dwelt apart
And on itself was fed and on the dead,
Ached with an inextinguishable thirst
In its great groping blindness
For drink of human kindness.
They went down in the battle, son and sire
407
All beaten, over-prest,
And she remained to nurse the secret fire;
For simple love that did not falter
Burnt in her breast as on an altar,
Amid the hosts of darkness and of doubt;
And incense seemed to flow from her and glow
Which made a passage sweet for her white feet
And from each action breathed its fragrance out;
Till the wide world was debtor
For her pure life, and better.
LIV
She is nobody, simply obscureWith a colourless mien and a mode
Which is cut in the orthodox code,
And is always discreet and demure;
There is nothing about her, to doubt her
Proper feelings and nondescript mind,
And the baggage within and without her
Is the same common dulness and kind;
She can show no extraction or action
That's above the old regular rut,
Nor a ghost with a story nor fraction
Of a skeleton drowned in a butt.
She is nobody, one of the crowd,
A respectable item, no more,
To be covered some day with a shroud
While the fooling goes on as before;
There is nothing to flutter or smut her
Or suppose hers a chronicle queer,
Though she takes the society stutter
And the latest society leer;
No one ever will kiss her or miss her
Or give less than conventional grief,
Or for spoiling a character hiss her
And despatch with regret or relief.
LV
The ugly Duckling! No one loves her,No one cares
408
Aside and victuals with her shares;
But takes of course the larger section
With the best,
And growls at any weak objection
Or arrest.
And all the earth is singing, singing,
Nor heeds her trouble and the wrong,
And all the bells are ringing, ringing,
In Nature's church to evensong.
The ugly Duckling! No one holds her
Little hand,
Or pats her freckled cheek and folds her
Safe up and snug in Babyland;
Friends always pass her by and blessings
Miss her lot,
The cat gets kindness and caressings
She does not;
But God is King and reigning, reigning
Above our cruel creeds in Love,
And past these mists of feigning, feigning,
He counts her beautiful above.
LVI
By gaslit shops and shelves she passesWith ragged form and famished eyes,
And mirrored sees in magic glasses
Another earth and other skies;
And, with the lone damp pavement stone
Her chill companion and her bread,
She feels the stark and deadly dark
With numbing fingers like the dead.
But men are laughing, women quaffing,
The cup of nectar full and deep,
While some have clothing, some have nothing,
And others only death or sleep.
Moved on she paces up and down
And hears the babble of the feast,
Or rustling of some silken gown
And envies even the fatted beast.
409
Still goes to Heaven and wins no help,
And deaf to need yet thousands heed
The pampered lapdog's lazy yelp.
And through the rifting night her drifting
Life vanishes in mist once more,
Beneath the scourges of the surges
That beat on earth's old burial shore.
LVII
She is pleasant to flirt with perhaps for an hourAnd perhaps for a minute or two,
But that face like an angel's can yet look as sour
As a Tartar's with murder to do.
Then she bustles and hustles
You out of the room,
And her skirt in a tempest of black
With a crisping and wisping
Suggestive of doom,
Flies afar till the boards even crack.
She has tantrums and tiffs and with her you must take them,
But I think she's as pretty as God ever makes them.
There's no humbug about her, you know what you've got,
And for baggage like that dearly pay;
You will have a good meal and delightfully hot,
And a temper that goes its sweet way.
She's not painted or tainted
With folly and fluff
And indulges no vice, I am sure;
By most pressing caressing,
No powder or stuff
Will come off—she is simple and pure.
If you don't mind the sauce and the sharpest of pepper,
She's a thoroughbred filly and beautiful stepper.
LVIII
Most gentle and all-perfect lady,Queen among women, yet
Preferring cloisters shy and shady—
410
As often Nature dimly weaves
A rose, that's hidden by its leaves.
O excellent fair Dorothy,
Thy touch so tender in affliction
Is patent of nobility,
Thy breath is only benediction;
And in thy heart, which dwells apart,
Is love that loves exceedingly.
I try to paint thee in thy glory—
But then I cannot guess
One half the wonder of the story,
Told by that Christ-likeness.
My hand is weak, my purpose fails—
And yet I see the bitter nails.
For now the veil, no vulgar pride,
Reveals when dropt the sacred stigma,
The piercèd hands, the riven side,
And all the sad and sweet enigma.
For thou hast borne the cruel scorn,
And been with Jesus crucified.
LIX
Her eyes were gates of Heaven, her mouth was praise,And on her happy brow
Bright with the peace which doth to God upraise,
Was writ the holy vow;
The sacred sign, so blest, benign,
To which the nations bow.
Carved out of worship seemed that humble frame,
One beautiful petition,
One blessing, like a pure embodied flame
Which held in God fruition,
And must adore for evermore
But of its own volition.
For on her heart's white altar freely burned
A love, which wholly gave
The gentle life which to its Lord returned
Through self-denial's grave;
And in its fall recovered all,
411
The virtue of the Cross, which from her shed
The shine of benediction,
Made the blind world the better for her tread
And healed the worst affliction;
At each step grew, of crimson dew,
The flower of crucifixion.
LX
O, more than beautiful and best,Whom none hath truly seen
In thy sweet naked glory drest,
I humbly crown thee Queen;
But not on any earth thy throne
Nor in a clouded sky,
We build who build for thee alone,
But in Eternity;
And if we may not ever know
The fulness of thy face,
We catch some glimpses here below
In every woman's grace.
O more than beautiful, the One
Whom all so vainly sue,
And fair and finished meet in none
Though each possess a clue;
I mark thy presence through the land
In happy virgin fears,
The whiteness of a wedded hand,
And in a harlot's tears;
But what thou art and whither bent
Save in the Heaven of Love
We guess not, though with pure intent
I stretch blind arms above.
412
SCRUBBING THE STEPS.
She was scrubbing the steps as I passed,
And she stopt for a moment and met
My inquiring,
In a look too expressively glassed
Which she pardoned because it was yet
So admiring.
O her beautiful arms were both bare,
And she carried a crown if of care—
But untiring;
While our hands somehow mingled by chance,
And my heart began idly a dance
Of desiring.
And she stopt for a moment and met
My inquiring,
In a look too expressively glassed
Which she pardoned because it was yet
So admiring.
O her beautiful arms were both bare,
And she carried a crown if of care—
But untiring;
While our hands somehow mingled by chance,
And my heart began idly a dance
Of desiring.
She was scrubbing the steps—that is all—
When I ventured upon a warm touch,
Not defended;
And I let a few compliments fall
Which were fervent at least, if not such
As intended;
But they came in a hurry, like me,
And I had not the leisure to see
Them amended;
And our lips got together and kist
By an act, in the morning and mist,
Soon expended.
When I ventured upon a warm touch,
Not defended;
And I let a few compliments fall
Which were fervent at least, if not such
As intended;
But they came in a hurry, like me,
And I had not the leisure to see
Them amended;
And our lips got together and kist
By an act, in the morning and mist,
Soon expended.
She was scrubbing the steps, as I left
Her bright brow with a halo of joy,
But unresting;
None the sadder because of my theft,
As if drudging were only a toy,
Not protesting.
And I could not forbear looking still
Back at beauty, that took with good will
My molesting;
And I wished I could oftener meet,
On my business and journeys, so sweet
An arresting.
Her bright brow with a halo of joy,
But unresting;
None the sadder because of my theft,
As if drudging were only a toy,
Not protesting.
And I could not forbear looking still
Back at beauty, that took with good will
My molesting;
And I wished I could oftener meet,
On my business and journeys, so sweet
An arresting.
413
She is scrubbing the steps, as I go
Through the bustle and bother of days
Yet laborious;
While I drift with the feverish flow
In the mire and the murmuring ways
And censorious.
For in fancy I turn to the time
When I heard that susurrus and chime
Not inglorious;
And when now I plunge into the strife
She is scrubbing the steps of my life—
And victorious.
Through the bustle and bother of days
Yet laborious;
While I drift with the feverish flow
In the mire and the murmuring ways
And censorious.
For in fancy I turn to the time
When I heard that susurrus and chime
Not inglorious;
And when now I plunge into the strife
She is scrubbing the steps of my life—
And victorious.
YASMEENA—MY INDIAN FATE.
Lax and lascivious,
And with tinkling feet
Set with sweet silver bells, like dying knells
Of lost souls cast on utter Space omnivious,
She gazes from the lattice down the street;
Her supple beauty sways, as to the wind
Some soft anemone,
But holds hegemony
Above her peers, a fervid flower of Ind.
The heavy perfume from her scented hair
Catches the breath
Like odorous death,
And with her bosom's naked blossoms
She sits supreme and as a demon fair.
And with tinkling feet
Set with sweet silver bells, like dying knells
Of lost souls cast on utter Space omnivious,
She gazes from the lattice down the street;
Her supple beauty sways, as to the wind
Some soft anemone,
But holds hegemony
Above her peers, a fervid flower of Ind.
The heavy perfume from her scented hair
Catches the breath
Like odorous death,
And with her bosom's naked blossoms
She sits supreme and as a demon fair.
Her mind is littleness,
But her lusts are large
And feed upon all hearts with subtle arts
Or sport in splendid vice with virtue's brittleness,
Just as a child may toy with ocean's marge;
A veilèd tomb she swallows up the gold
Of kings in revelry,
And with pure devilry
Grows brighter like a plant from burial mould,
Enriched by every sacrifice of wealth;
The cruel grip
Of that red lip,
Seen through its musky mantle dusky,
From fame and fortune draws its ruddy health.
But her lusts are large
And feed upon all hearts with subtle arts
Or sport in splendid vice with virtue's brittleness,
Just as a child may toy with ocean's marge;
A veilèd tomb she swallows up the gold
Of kings in revelry,
And with pure devilry
Grows brighter like a plant from burial mould,
Enriched by every sacrifice of wealth;
414
Of that red lip,
Seen through its musky mantle dusky,
From fame and fortune draws its ruddy health.
Languid, libidinous,
In her sandal wood
And shadowed shame's retreat, at each quick beat
Of her hot pulse, whatever we would hide in us
She reads to ravish in unwomanhood;
Each separate ruby of her costly chain
Is but the vanity
Of some humanity,
The life of man, by her fierce passion slain.
Mad tears and sighs are mingled with the thread
That gathers tight
Her limbs of light,
In the gay glitter yet so bitter
Of that rich robe whose stitches are the dead.
In her sandal wood
And shadowed shame's retreat, at each quick beat
Of her hot pulse, whatever we would hide in us
She reads to ravish in unwomanhood;
Each separate ruby of her costly chain
Is but the vanity
Of some humanity,
The life of man, by her fierce passion slain.
Mad tears and sighs are mingled with the thread
That gathers tight
Her limbs of light,
In the gay glitter yet so bitter
Of that rich robe whose stitches are the dead.
I see her lazily
Couched with wanton eyes
And haunted looks as deep as doom and sleep,
That through their curtained lashes glimmer hazily,
As on a fallen earth might fallen skies;
I know the storming of her lustful stress,
A hell importunate
For souls unfortunate
Trapt in the toils of her hard tenderness.
And yet I flutter to my certain fate,
Lured by desires
Like wreckers' fires,
In carnal struggling joys of juggling,
Compelled by love that is but one with hate.
Couched with wanton eyes
And haunted looks as deep as doom and sleep,
That through their curtained lashes glimmer hazily,
As on a fallen earth might fallen skies;
I know the storming of her lustful stress,
A hell importunate
For souls unfortunate
Trapt in the toils of her hard tenderness.
And yet I flutter to my certain fate,
Lured by desires
Like wreckers' fires,
In carnal struggling joys of juggling,
Compelled by love that is but one with hate.
THE GOSPEL OF PINK AND WHITE.
O the love of a woman is mighty,
And the love of a woman is sweet;
Though her pathway be foolish and flighty,
There is music as much in her feet.
So I murmured and knew as I kissed her,
With the passion that madly had missed her
And had feared we might never more meet.
Yes, I thought this and said when her dear fingers laid
Upon me their imprisoning bands,
That were softer than sleep and half-bold, half-afraid,
But yet almost delicious commands.
O the love of a woman divine, it is human,
Though inspired with a heavenlier plan,
In its wonder of pink and the white,
And the glamour and grace infinite—
It's the story and making of man.
And the love of a woman is sweet;
Though her pathway be foolish and flighty,
There is music as much in her feet.
So I murmured and knew as I kissed her,
415
And had feared we might never more meet.
Yes, I thought this and said when her dear fingers laid
Upon me their imprisoning bands,
That were softer than sleep and half-bold, half-afraid,
But yet almost delicious commands.
O the love of a woman divine, it is human,
Though inspired with a heavenlier plan,
In its wonder of pink and the white,
And the glamour and grace infinite—
It's the story and making of man.
O the love of a woman is splendid,
And the love of a woman is strong,
Like the tale of a truth never-ended
And an ever-beginning of song;
As he knows who with her has once mounted
Up the steps of denial uncounted,
To the heights above hatred and wrong.
Ah, I blissfully felt as before her I knelt,
She was drawing me upward with her,
To the summit of peace where serenely she dwelt,
In the beauty that nowise can err.
O the love of a woman is given to no man
Who is squalid and creeps where he can;
And its glory of pink and the white
Wherein God doth His love-letters write,
Is the best revelation to man.
And the love of a woman is strong,
Like the tale of a truth never-ended
And an ever-beginning of song;
As he knows who with her has once mounted
Up the steps of denial uncounted,
To the heights above hatred and wrong.
Ah, I blissfully felt as before her I knelt,
She was drawing me upward with her,
To the summit of peace where serenely she dwelt,
In the beauty that nowise can err.
O the love of a woman is given to no man
Who is squalid and creeps where he can;
And its glory of pink and the white
Wherein God doth His love-letters write,
Is the best revelation to man.
O the love of a woman is fickle,
And the love of a woman is fire;
For it cuts as in harvest the sickle,
And it burns with unsated desire;
But the light of her soul which I bathed in
And the purity she was enswathed in,
Were a virginal holy attire.
Lo, above me her eye like a rain-washen sky
Shone in pity that cleansed me from cloud,
And my heart seemed to break in one conquering cry
Which had burst from its earthlier shroud.
O the love of a woman divine, it is human
Though eternity only the span,
In its gospel of pink and the white
And the visions that these do indite—
It's the joy and salvation of man.
And the love of a woman is fire;
For it cuts as in harvest the sickle,
And it burns with unsated desire;
But the light of her soul which I bathed in
And the purity she was enswathed in,
Were a virginal holy attire.
Lo, above me her eye like a rain-washen sky
Shone in pity that cleansed me from cloud,
And my heart seemed to break in one conquering cry
Which had burst from its earthlier shroud.
O the love of a woman divine, it is human
416
In its gospel of pink and the white
And the visions that these do indite—
It's the joy and salvation of man.
THE BRIDE OF HEAVEN.
My face was never meant a fortune,
God put His treasure in
My heart which no one did importune,
And deeper than the skin;
But there a blessing beyond guessing
And not for every man's caressing
Or any fool to win,
He planted meet as meadow-sweet
And sheltered fast from sin.
He watered it with pleasant tears
In trembling hopes and trustful fears
And His divinest doubt,
While with a tender hidden splendour
He compassed it about.
How could He hang a jewel fair
As woman's wondrous love,
Upon a fragile thread of hair
However bright above?
Or in the colour of a cheek
Supremely ripe and rounded,
Till it in grace abounded,
As roseleaves with no charms to seek?
He does not dwell on lips of scarlet,
Or look from eyes of gray and starlit.
God put His treasure in
My heart which no one did importune,
And deeper than the skin;
But there a blessing beyond guessing
And not for every man's caressing
Or any fool to win,
He planted meet as meadow-sweet
And sheltered fast from sin.
He watered it with pleasant tears
In trembling hopes and trustful fears
And His divinest doubt,
While with a tender hidden splendour
He compassed it about.
How could He hang a jewel fair
As woman's wondrous love,
Upon a fragile thread of hair
However bright above?
Or in the colour of a cheek
Supremely ripe and rounded,
Till it in grace abounded,
As roseleaves with no charms to seek?
He does not dwell on lips of scarlet,
Or look from eyes of gray and starlit.
And yet I sometimes pine for blisses
Which I have never known,
The maddening throb of maiden kisses
Though light as breezes blown;
The shy refusing and excusing
Of wants one wishes if abusing,
And sadly missed when flown;
Consenting coy, resisted joy,
Denied, yet all one's own.
My mouth has felt no passion thrill
Nor struggled with the amorous ill
Desired when least empowered,
Nor glowed at rapture of the capture
Which left its dew deflowered.
Men only mark the beauty's paint,
The outward bloom and pride,
While these may cloke a poison taint
And shame and death inside.
I know an angel in me dwells
With radiant form and features,
Unlike these surface creatures
Made up of poor and passing spells.
The earth must take its sordid leaven,
But I'm betrothed the Bride of Heaven.
Which I have never known,
The maddening throb of maiden kisses
Though light as breezes blown;
The shy refusing and excusing
Of wants one wishes if abusing,
And sadly missed when flown;
Consenting coy, resisted joy,
417
My mouth has felt no passion thrill
Nor struggled with the amorous ill
Desired when least empowered,
Nor glowed at rapture of the capture
Which left its dew deflowered.
Men only mark the beauty's paint,
The outward bloom and pride,
While these may cloke a poison taint
And shame and death inside.
I know an angel in me dwells
With radiant form and features,
Unlike these surface creatures
Made up of poor and passing spells.
The earth must take its sordid leaven,
But I'm betrothed the Bride of Heaven.
DESIRABLE.
Dear and desirable and most admirable,
Fairest of all fair things
Without the thorn and woman-born,
Though with the angel wings!
O white and comely maiden whom tenderly I greet,
Thy mouth is honey-laden, a cup that's crimson-sweet;
Thy round cheek's perianth is like the amaranth
And touched with gentle rose,
Nor spray upon green willow had ever such a pillow
As thy serene repose.
I know thy dainty kisses which rush to scarlet blisses
Are past my earthly count,
Who boldly ventured first to slake my human thirst
At that celestial fount.
Fairest of all fair things
Without the thorn and woman-born,
Though with the angel wings!
O white and comely maiden whom tenderly I greet,
Thy mouth is honey-laden, a cup that's crimson-sweet;
Thy round cheek's perianth is like the amaranth
And touched with gentle rose,
Nor spray upon green willow had ever such a pillow
As thy serene repose.
I know thy dainty kisses which rush to scarlet blisses
Are past my earthly count,
Who boldly ventured first to slake my human thirst
At that celestial fount.
Bright and most beautiful, delicate, dutiful
In every virgin grace
Of moulded flesh, and dewy-fresh
As dawn's young opening face!
My daring lips were foremost to marry thine, and win
The charms which I adore most and deeper than red skin.
I will not deem that bloom shall ever know of doom
And fade as common flowers,
Or those long dusky lashes can pass to earth and ashes
With their shy shadowed bowers.
Let others leave no relic who lack thy gifts angelic,
If unto me not fair;
Thou never canst go by, who hauntest land and sky,
And lightest all the air.
In every virgin grace
Of moulded flesh, and dewy-fresh
As dawn's young opening face!
My daring lips were foremost to marry thine, and win
418
I will not deem that bloom shall ever know of doom
And fade as common flowers,
Or those long dusky lashes can pass to earth and ashes
With their shy shadowed bowers.
Let others leave no relic who lack thy gifts angelic,
If unto me not fair;
Thou never canst go by, who hauntest land and sky,
And lightest all the air.
BROWN DIAMONDS.
There are Brown Diamonds,
And I who speak have seen and handled them;
Yes, at Lord Briamond's,
In that tremendous crush
Like strawberries and cream, one white rose blush,
I found a beauty, quite a perfect gem—
The purest water;
Ah, you can guess, it was the Merchant's daughter,
Poor little dear,
With the suspicion of a tear
Just bridled back, led as a lamb to slaughter—
Got up resplendent, and half fun, half fear.
And I who speak have seen and handled them;
Yes, at Lord Briamond's,
In that tremendous crush
Like strawberries and cream, one white rose blush,
I found a beauty, quite a perfect gem—
The purest water;
Ah, you can guess, it was the Merchant's daughter,
Poor little dear,
With the suspicion of a tear
Just bridled back, led as a lamb to slaughter—
Got up resplendent, and half fun, half fear.
Her first young outing—
And so she looked a victim scared and shy,
With pretty pouting;
Alas, there's many a slip,
Between the kiss and the sweet scarlet lip!
And diamonds clearly shone, in each brown eye.
But she seemed puzzled,
As wondering if the men were really muzzled
By social rites
And took decorous bites,
Or fancying by mistake they might have guzzled
Among the dainties there such modest mites.
And so she looked a victim scared and shy,
With pretty pouting;
Alas, there's many a slip,
Between the kiss and the sweet scarlet lip!
And diamonds clearly shone, in each brown eye.
But she seemed puzzled,
As wondering if the men were really muzzled
By social rites
And took decorous bites,
Or fancying by mistake they might have guzzled
Among the dainties there such modest mites.
419
Yet she was pliable,
I found, when fairly introduced—and then
So undeniable,
Her charm and fortune sure;
For she was heiress, proper and demure,
Herself, not at the mercy of a pen!
She sweetly prattled
Of protoplasm and stocks and downright tattled,
Though looking down;
And she was gipsy brown
To her warm finger tips, and diamonds battled
With the bright lustre of her gorgeous gown.
I found, when fairly introduced—and then
So undeniable,
Her charm and fortune sure;
For she was heiress, proper and demure,
Herself, not at the mercy of a pen!
She sweetly prattled
Of protoplasm and stocks and downright tattled,
Though looking down;
And she was gipsy brown
To her warm finger tips, and diamonds battled
With the bright lustre of her gorgeous gown.
Her hair was russet,
And, if by Röntgen's rays I could have seen,
Each seam and gusset
Would have appeared the same;
Her glowing cheeks were truly a brown flame,
Her mouth dropt pearls of wisdom and between
A rarer jewel
Like diamonds, sometimes, and as clear and cruel.
Her graces ripe,
I tell you, were enough to wipe
Out all the image of the Siren Sewell—
I even forgot for once my precious pipe.
And, if by Röntgen's rays I could have seen,
Each seam and gusset
Would have appeared the same;
Her glowing cheeks were truly a brown flame,
Her mouth dropt pearls of wisdom and between
A rarer jewel
Like diamonds, sometimes, and as clear and cruel.
Her graces ripe,
I tell you, were enough to wipe
Out all the image of the Siren Sewell—
I even forgot for once my precious pipe.
YVONNE.
Most beautiful, most rare,
Crowned beyond reach of care
With brighter charm of eye and arm,
Than woman ever bare.
No bud, but a white blossom
Of brow and ripened bosom,
Thou showest yet new graces
And pride is in thy paces.
O still go gladly on,
In all the magic of thy might
Woven of day and deepest night,
Yvonne.
Crowned beyond reach of care
With brighter charm of eye and arm,
Than woman ever bare.
No bud, but a white blossom
Of brow and ripened bosom,
Thou showest yet new graces
And pride is in thy paces.
O still go gladly on,
In all the magic of thy might
Woven of day and deepest night,
Yvonne.
420
Most delicate, most dear,
Thy face is calmly clear,
Yet the gray sky of mystery
Is shadowed forth in fear.
For in those conquering glances
Where joy superbly dances,
Lurks low another vision
As if divine derision.
For light, that never shone
Before on any human head,
Is from thy splendid pathway spread
Yvonne.
Thy face is calmly clear,
Yet the gray sky of mystery
Is shadowed forth in fear.
For in those conquering glances
Where joy superbly dances,
Lurks low another vision
As if divine derision.
For light, that never shone
Before on any human head,
Is from thy splendid pathway spread
Yvonne.
Most exquisite, most fair,
Wrought of delight and air
And every sweet, in form and feet,
And the wide world's despair.
As from the sun the noonshine,
And out of dark the moonshine,
Thou of thy glory givest
And in each rapture livest.
When lesser gifts are gone,
Thine hardly have begun to be
And gather more than art can see,
Yvonne.
Wrought of delight and air
And every sweet, in form and feet,
And the wide world's despair.
As from the sun the noonshine,
And out of dark the moonshine,
Thou of thy glory givest
And in each rapture livest.
When lesser gifts are gone,
Thine hardly have begun to be
And gather more than art can see,
Yvonne.
Most wonderful, most white,
No thorns of petty spite
Do mar thy years above our tears,
In freshness infinite.
Though from the dazzling dimness
Surge up, at times, in grimness
Gaunt shapes and grisly shadows,
Like clouds on summer meadows.
But still walk greatly on,
And leave the earth a lovelier sheen
Where thou hast but a moment been,
Yvonne.
No thorns of petty spite
Do mar thy years above our tears,
In freshness infinite.
Though from the dazzling dimness
Surge up, at times, in grimness
Gaunt shapes and grisly shadows,
Like clouds on summer meadows.
But still walk greatly on,
And leave the earth a lovelier sheen
Where thou hast but a moment been,
Yvonne.
421
CLEMENCY SNOW.
Ah, I do not remember the year that she came—
Clemency Snow!
But the woods were all burning in russet and flame,
And the birds and the breezes made songs of her name—
Clemency Snow!
From her Puritan vesture white hands with the gesture
Of a queenly commanding that brooked no withstanding
Glanced out and compelled any will that rebelled,
Or disputed the conquests of Clemency Snow.
It was magic and mischief and all that was fair,
With the breath of the moorland and sweet of the air—
Clemency Snow.
Clemency Snow!
But the woods were all burning in russet and flame,
And the birds and the breezes made songs of her name—
Clemency Snow!
From her Puritan vesture white hands with the gesture
Of a queenly commanding that brooked no withstanding
Glanced out and compelled any will that rebelled,
Or disputed the conquests of Clemency Snow.
It was magic and mischief and all that was fair,
With the breath of the moorland and sweet of the air—
Clemency Snow.
But she looked so demure, and her delicate chin—
Clemency Snow!
Had the least little curve which to malice is kin,
And it testified clearly against every sin—
Clemency Snow!
While the culprit before her was made to adore her,
Feeling mere dust and ashes if wrath fell in flashes
That pointed him right from their curtain of night;
For no evil might sojourn with Clemency Snow.
There was frost of the winter and passion of fire,
In that prudent demeanour and proper attire—
Clemency Snow.
Clemency Snow!
Had the least little curve which to malice is kin,
And it testified clearly against every sin—
Clemency Snow!
While the culprit before her was made to adore her,
Feeling mere dust and ashes if wrath fell in flashes
That pointed him right from their curtain of night;
For no evil might sojourn with Clemency Snow.
There was frost of the winter and passion of fire,
In that prudent demeanour and proper attire—
Clemency Snow.
She was gentle and yet had an adamant will—
Clemency Snow!
While she knew I was foolish and tempted by ill,
And had gone to the devil and followed him still—
Clemency Snow!
So she spoke to me plainly and argued not vainly
Of the faith that was dearer, till Heaven drew nearer;
But the iron, that dwelt in the softness, I felt;
And I yielded at once to pure Clemency Snow.
O she came and she saw and she conquered and went,
And I found a new spirit a treasure unspent—
Clemency Snow.
Clemency Snow!
While she knew I was foolish and tempted by ill,
And had gone to the devil and followed him still—
Clemency Snow!
So she spoke to me plainly and argued not vainly
Of the faith that was dearer, till Heaven drew nearer;
But the iron, that dwelt in the softness, I felt;
And I yielded at once to pure Clemency Snow.
O she came and she saw and she conquered and went,
And I found a new spirit a treasure unspent—
Clemency Snow.
422
And so now when the autumn is painting the leaves,
Clemency Snow!
I see blessing the harvest and shining from sheaves,
And hear whispering sweetly from corners and eaves—
Clemency Snow!
And her eyes of grey gleaming in visions of dreaming
Beam with beauty and power, and lips like a flower
Open ripe and as red, and like perfume is shed
Words of warning and comfort from Clemency Snow.
'Tis religion and sorcery mingled in one,
And the promise of poems that never were done—
Clemency Snow.
Clemency Snow!
I see blessing the harvest and shining from sheaves,
And hear whispering sweetly from corners and eaves—
Clemency Snow!
And her eyes of grey gleaming in visions of dreaming
Beam with beauty and power, and lips like a flower
Open ripe and as red, and like perfume is shed
Words of warning and comfort from Clemency Snow.
'Tis religion and sorcery mingled in one,
And the promise of poems that never were done—
Clemency Snow.
DOLLY.
Do you know my Dolly darling,
Dolly darling,
Like a birdie on her way
Through the day,
Good for nothing but to play;
Like a noisy little starling,
Now upon the gabled roof
Quite aloof,
Now a shadow
On the meadow,
Always busy on the wing,
Always ripe to romp and sing?
O she patters,
And she chatters
Up and down the oaken stair,
Like a bird
Or wingèd word
With the sunshine in her hair;
And I fear, when she gets bolder
Plumes will bud ere she is older
From each dainty little shoulder—
As they may,
And she then will fly away,
Like a starling,
For she is my Dolly darling,
Dolly darling.
Dolly darling,
Like a birdie on her way
Through the day,
Good for nothing but to play;
Like a noisy little starling,
Now upon the gabled roof
Quite aloof,
Now a shadow
On the meadow,
Always busy on the wing,
Always ripe to romp and sing?
O she patters,
And she chatters
Up and down the oaken stair,
Like a bird
Or wingèd word
With the sunshine in her hair;
And I fear, when she gets bolder
Plumes will bud ere she is older
From each dainty little shoulder—
As they may,
And she then will fly away,
Like a starling,
For she is my Dolly darling,
Dolly darling.
423
Don't you know my darling Dolly,
Darling Dolly
With her big eyes opened wide
In their pride,
Which the golden tangles hide,
Dear as innocence and folly
Can make baby girly things
Without wings,
Who have beauty
For their duty,
Whereto girly things are born
As its blushes for the morn?
O she rustles
And she bustles
In and out my study door,
With her hands'
Pink soft commands
Tracing figures on the floor;
Wooing me with her wee stature
Back to the pure founts of Nature,
Mirth and life's young legislature,
Where the sweet
And the bitter mix, and meet
Love and folly;
For she is my darling Dolly
Darling Dolly.
Darling Dolly
With her big eyes opened wide
In their pride,
Which the golden tangles hide,
Dear as innocence and folly
Can make baby girly things
Without wings,
Who have beauty
For their duty,
Whereto girly things are born
As its blushes for the morn?
O she rustles
And she bustles
In and out my study door,
With her hands'
Pink soft commands
Tracing figures on the floor;
Wooing me with her wee stature
Back to the pure founts of Nature,
Mirth and life's young legislature,
Where the sweet
And the bitter mix, and meet
Love and folly;
For she is my darling Dolly
Darling Dolly.
Do you know my Dolly darling,
Dolly darling,
Playmate of the birds and bees
And the trees,
And the flowers that kiss her knees,
And the wind of winter snarling
Idly at her tiny toes,
As she goes?
Never college
Gave such knowledge
As a woman child of seven
Wrought of earth and bathed in Heaven.
O the graces
Of her paces
In a music more than art,
Past the years
And true as tears
Echo on and through my heart;
When the red rose hangs its jewel
On the rose bush, when the fuel
Fights the bitter frost and cruel
Tender snow,
When the winds to battle blow
And keep snarling;
For she is my Dolly darling,
Dolly darling.
Dolly darling,
Playmate of the birds and bees
And the trees,
And the flowers that kiss her knees,
And the wind of winter snarling
Idly at her tiny toes,
As she goes?
Never college
Gave such knowledge
As a woman child of seven
Wrought of earth and bathed in Heaven.
O the graces
Of her paces
424
Past the years
And true as tears
Echo on and through my heart;
When the red rose hangs its jewel
On the rose bush, when the fuel
Fights the bitter frost and cruel
Tender snow,
When the winds to battle blow
And keep snarling;
For she is my Dolly darling,
Dolly darling.
Don't you know my darling Dolly,
Darling Dolly,
With her wise and serious looks
As of books,
And with babble like a brook's—
Lips like berries of the holly
Blushing, while she metes with laws
Stars and straws;
Lightly making,
Lightly breaking
Worlds or trifles at her will,
Calm in her omniscient skill?
Still untiring,
Still desiring
Moons and mushrooms of a night,
Ruling all
Who come at call
With a sceptre more than might,
As a nun who wears a wimple,
She can look as sad and simple
Though the cheeks do laugh and dimple,
And the pout
Of the lips that crimson out,
Flame like holly;
For she is my darling Dolly,
Darling Dolly.
Darling Dolly,
With her wise and serious looks
As of books,
And with babble like a brook's—
Lips like berries of the holly
Blushing, while she metes with laws
Stars and straws;
Lightly making,
Lightly breaking
Worlds or trifles at her will,
Calm in her omniscient skill?
Still untiring,
Still desiring
Moons and mushrooms of a night,
Ruling all
Who come at call
With a sceptre more than might,
As a nun who wears a wimple,
She can look as sad and simple
Though the cheeks do laugh and dimple,
And the pout
Of the lips that crimson out,
Flame like holly;
For she is my darling Dolly,
Darling Dolly.
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BABY BUTTERCUP.
When the flowers of Spring came up
Came the Baby Buttercup,
Yellow-haired,
With rosy-paired
Lips that laughed in utter bliss,
And seemed asking for a kiss—
For a kiss
That none would miss,
Meant to make the sad life sweeter
And completer;
Each eye was a blue abyss,
Dew and love,
From founts above,
Touched with something indiscreeter—
Lowly fire
Of earth desire,
For a mortal not unmeeter.
All a flower, and all a girl—
In a whirl,
All of madness, mirth, and tears
Less of sorrow than of joys,
As if ills were idle toys,
And she only played at fears.
When the flowers in Spring came up,
Primroses and never-still
Wind-blooms and the daffodil,
Came the Baby Buttercup,
Buttercup.
Came the Baby Buttercup,
Yellow-haired,
With rosy-paired
Lips that laughed in utter bliss,
And seemed asking for a kiss—
For a kiss
That none would miss,
Meant to make the sad life sweeter
And completer;
Each eye was a blue abyss,
Dew and love,
From founts above,
Touched with something indiscreeter—
Lowly fire
Of earth desire,
For a mortal not unmeeter.
All a flower, and all a girl—
In a whirl,
All of madness, mirth, and tears
Less of sorrow than of joys,
As if ills were idle toys,
And she only played at fears.
When the flowers in Spring came up,
Primroses and never-still
Wind-blooms and the daffodil,
Came the Baby Buttercup,
Buttercup.
Never since the world began,
Or the universe, it may be,
Was a Baby
So divine as Gwenllian,
And delicious
In her fashion, as of flame,
With her big and unsuspicious
Eyes, that ever glowed and glanced,
And with each new feeling danced;
Whom the Daisies gave the name,
When with her they blossomed up,
Buttercup.
For her hair was bright and yellow,
Soft and fine,
And just a fellow
To the pretty celandine,
And the flower
Wherein butterflies and bees,
Tired of holly-hocks like trees,
As within a golden bower,
Love to sup;
Which is the true Buttercup,
Buttercup.
Or the universe, it may be,
Was a Baby
So divine as Gwenllian,
And delicious
In her fashion, as of flame,
With her big and unsuspicious
Eyes, that ever glowed and glanced,
And with each new feeling danced;
426
When with her they blossomed up,
Buttercup.
For her hair was bright and yellow,
Soft and fine,
And just a fellow
To the pretty celandine,
And the flower
Wherein butterflies and bees,
Tired of holly-hocks like trees,
As within a golden bower,
Love to sup;
Which is the true Buttercup,
Buttercup.
At her birth
All took up the happy tale
In one harmony of mirth,
From the violet in the vale
To the early nightingale,
And in music put a girth
Round her little world; the thorn
Bloomed, when Gwenllian was born.
Yes, the trees
Romped and rustled with the breeze,
And the branches clapt their hands
Through the lands,
And the millstream like a boy
Leapt and shouted in its joy;
And the birds,
In the ivy and the covers,
Low like lovers,
Talked and talked as wingèd words,
Winged words,
The pretty Birds!
And the flowers in mossy dells,
Where the fairies wove their spells
And in pleasant swoons and swells
Chanted dim
Their evening hymn,
Rang their bells
And rang their bells.
While the dead leaves growing crisper
In a sudden wave of life,
With a wandering gust at strife,
Sent a whisper
Through and through the garden ground,
While they flew and frolicked round.
Leaves and buds and feathered things
Laughed aloud, or shook their wings
As at morn;
And the Fairies in their rings
Danced, because a Babe was born—
Babe was born.
And, ah, the Owl,
The great flapping flopping Owl,
The white staring barndoor Owl
On the prowl,
Hungry and prepared to sup,
Hooted hoarsely, “Who are you?”
And then answered, “How d'you do?
Buttercup,
Sweet Buttercup?”
And just like a floating cloud
Or the shadow of a shroud
Through the leaves,
And the overhanging eaves
Of the oak, in silent state,
Passed into the belfry tower
As the hour
Struck, to tell his solemn mate.
And the mite
Speedwell to the aconite
Murmured, “One of us at length
Has attained to human power,
Though a flower,
With the dower
Of our weakness and our strength.”
And they bowed their tiny heads
On their beds,
As at sunset they must do;
And the cowslip nodded too,
Nodded too.
All took up the happy tale
In one harmony of mirth,
From the violet in the vale
To the early nightingale,
And in music put a girth
Round her little world; the thorn
Bloomed, when Gwenllian was born.
Yes, the trees
Romped and rustled with the breeze,
And the branches clapt their hands
Through the lands,
And the millstream like a boy
Leapt and shouted in its joy;
And the birds,
In the ivy and the covers,
Low like lovers,
Talked and talked as wingèd words,
Winged words,
The pretty Birds!
And the flowers in mossy dells,
Where the fairies wove their spells
And in pleasant swoons and swells
Chanted dim
Their evening hymn,
427
And rang their bells.
While the dead leaves growing crisper
In a sudden wave of life,
With a wandering gust at strife,
Sent a whisper
Through and through the garden ground,
While they flew and frolicked round.
Leaves and buds and feathered things
Laughed aloud, or shook their wings
As at morn;
And the Fairies in their rings
Danced, because a Babe was born—
Babe was born.
And, ah, the Owl,
The great flapping flopping Owl,
The white staring barndoor Owl
On the prowl,
Hungry and prepared to sup,
Hooted hoarsely, “Who are you?”
And then answered, “How d'you do?
Buttercup,
Sweet Buttercup?”
And just like a floating cloud
Or the shadow of a shroud
Through the leaves,
And the overhanging eaves
Of the oak, in silent state,
Passed into the belfry tower
As the hour
Struck, to tell his solemn mate.
And the mite
Speedwell to the aconite
Murmured, “One of us at length
Has attained to human power,
Though a flower,
With the dower
Of our weakness and our strength.”
And they bowed their tiny heads
On their beds,
428
And the cowslip nodded too,
Nodded too.
Gwenllian grew with the flowers,
Like the flowers,
Thriving in the sun and dew
And each day some graces new
With the showers.
Showed their charms—
Redder lips and rounder arms,
Hair that with the breezes blew
Brighter, yellower;
And her baby talk waxed mellower,
When she woke into a queen
With the sheen
And the circumstance of courts,
Not despising spoils or sports,
And in ruling waxed adepter
With her sceptre.
She became a rose in June
Fresh and fragrant,
With a vagrant
Love of being lost in corners,
While she changed her kingdom's tune
To the tearful strains of mourners—
Daily lost
And daily found,
Where she crost
Forbidden ground.
In the most delicious poses
Sleeping with the scent of roses;
When with laughter she leapt up,
Quite a queen
In royal sheen,
As if she had never been
Aught but proper Buttercup,
Buttercup.
When she walked
One little pace,
When she talked
With simple grace
Just the first one little word,
Most articulately spoken,
And the infant spell was broken,
None before had ever heard—
None before had seen a token
Of such dowers
And such powers
As like flowers
(Only in her second year,
And with really scarce a tear)
In the summer time came up
With the Baby Buttercup—
Buttercup.
Like the flowers,
Thriving in the sun and dew
And each day some graces new
With the showers.
Showed their charms—
Redder lips and rounder arms,
Hair that with the breezes blew
Brighter, yellower;
And her baby talk waxed mellower,
When she woke into a queen
With the sheen
And the circumstance of courts,
Not despising spoils or sports,
And in ruling waxed adepter
With her sceptre.
She became a rose in June
Fresh and fragrant,
With a vagrant
Love of being lost in corners,
While she changed her kingdom's tune
To the tearful strains of mourners—
Daily lost
And daily found,
Where she crost
Forbidden ground.
In the most delicious poses
Sleeping with the scent of roses;
When with laughter she leapt up,
Quite a queen
In royal sheen,
As if she had never been
Aught but proper Buttercup,
Buttercup.
When she walked
One little pace,
429
With simple grace
Just the first one little word,
Most articulately spoken,
And the infant spell was broken,
None before had ever heard—
None before had seen a token
Of such dowers
And such powers
As like flowers
(Only in her second year,
And with really scarce a tear)
In the summer time came up
With the Baby Buttercup—
Buttercup.
Presently she thought of marriage
And the husband made for her
And the prince she would prefer,
With a carriage
Made of glass
Such as came with Cinderella,
Drawn by some dear patient ass,
Not forgetting the umbrella.
And when throned upon the grass
Sweet and lazy
With the daisy
And her tresses all of gold,
While her subjects young and old
Brought her cakes on which to sup,
It was often hard to tell,
Though you knew her features well
And her spell,
Which was the true Buttercup,
Buttercup.
And the husband made for her
And the prince she would prefer,
With a carriage
Made of glass
Such as came with Cinderella,
Drawn by some dear patient ass,
Not forgetting the umbrella.
And when throned upon the grass
Sweet and lazy
With the daisy
And her tresses all of gold,
While her subjects young and old
Brought her cakes on which to sup,
It was often hard to tell,
Though you knew her features well
And her spell,
Which was the true Buttercup,
Buttercup.
But the daisy in the grass,
Meadow-sweet (not sweet as she),
Wood-ruff and anemone,
When they saw the baby pass
Growing tired of them and zealous
For new ends
And other friends,
All turned jealous.
And the passion-flower, that crept
To her window, sighed and wept
And cried “Buttercup, come down
Once again and with us sup,
Buttercup,
Dear Buttercup!”
And attired in her best gown,
Lo, the honeysuckle stept
Sad and still
Right across the window-sill
And within her chamber leapt,
Looking up
And through far-off future vistas,
Crying “Don't forget your sisters
And the flowers,
You are ours,
Buttercup,
Dear Buttercup!”
Meadow-sweet (not sweet as she),
Wood-ruff and anemone,
When they saw the baby pass
430
For new ends
And other friends,
All turned jealous.
And the passion-flower, that crept
To her window, sighed and wept
And cried “Buttercup, come down
Once again and with us sup,
Buttercup,
Dear Buttercup!”
And attired in her best gown,
Lo, the honeysuckle stept
Sad and still
Right across the window-sill
And within her chamber leapt,
Looking up
And through far-off future vistas,
Crying “Don't forget your sisters
And the flowers,
You are ours,
Buttercup,
Dear Buttercup!”
When the autumn came she fell
Sick, and lay a yellow patch
On the soft white bed and wondered
Why she was so very weak
And her breathing had a catch,
Till she hardly cared to speak,
And the old sweet ties were sundered.
So she lay
All night and day,
As in some enchanted bower,
Where she could not sleep or play;
But one night she flew away,
And recovered her lost power
And became again a flower.
In the spring she blossomed up
From the cold
Calm churchyard mould,
In a glory to behold,
And was still a Buttercup,
Buttercup.
Sick, and lay a yellow patch
On the soft white bed and wondered
Why she was so very weak
And her breathing had a catch,
Till she hardly cared to speak,
And the old sweet ties were sundered.
So she lay
All night and day,
As in some enchanted bower,
Where she could not sleep or play;
But one night she flew away,
And recovered her lost power
And became again a flower.
In the spring she blossomed up
From the cold
Calm churchyard mould,
431
And was still a Buttercup,
Buttercup.
MOLLY LOVE.
O I have a little daughter dear
Made of sunshine, flowers and dew,
And my passion deepening every year
Yet for her is always new—
Yet for her is always new;
She is dusky-haired and fervent,
She is tender, she is true,
She is half a queen—half servant
And has eyes of Irish blue.
If you suffer that or this stress
She is most demure and grave,
She is everybody's mistress
And is everybody's slave—
And is everybody's slave.
I would gladly be her glove,
For, though very small of stature,
She has quite a royal nature
Stamped with God's own legislature;
And her name is Molly Love,
And her name is Molly Love.
Made of sunshine, flowers and dew,
And my passion deepening every year
Yet for her is always new—
Yet for her is always new;
She is dusky-haired and fervent,
She is tender, she is true,
She is half a queen—half servant
And has eyes of Irish blue.
If you suffer that or this stress
She is most demure and grave,
She is everybody's mistress
And is everybody's slave—
And is everybody's slave.
I would gladly be her glove,
For, though very small of stature,
She has quite a royal nature
Stamped with God's own legislature;
And her name is Molly Love,
And her name is Molly Love.
Yes, I know a little girlie sweet
As the violets in Spring,
And the patter of her pretty feet
Like the bells of marriage ring—
Like the bells of marriage ring;
She is modest as a maiden
Of the golden times would be,
And her lips with honey laden
Are like cherries fair to see;
And her cheeks are blushing roses
That she borrows not from art,
When the crimson flower uncloses
And reveals its bleeding heart—
And reveals its bleeding heart.
Like a vision from above
She brings happiness, and laughter
That awakes the old oak rafter,
And will echo on hereafter;
For her name is Molly Love,
For her name is Molly Love.
As the violets in Spring,
And the patter of her pretty feet
Like the bells of marriage ring—
Like the bells of marriage ring;
She is modest as a maiden
Of the golden times would be,
And her lips with honey laden
Are like cherries fair to see;
And her cheeks are blushing roses
That she borrows not from art,
When the crimson flower uncloses
432
And reveals its bleeding heart.
Like a vision from above
She brings happiness, and laughter
That awakes the old oak rafter,
And will echo on hereafter;
For her name is Molly Love,
For her name is Molly Love.
Ah, I prize my little woman child,
And I ask no better choice
Than to watch her running free and wild,
With the babble of her voice—
With the babble of her voice;
There is grace in every movement,
There is magic in her hair,
And her pose defies improvement—
Any painter might despair;
While the colour falls and rises
On her perfect rounded cheek,
With the sweetest of surprises
You would elsewhere idly seek—
You would elsewhere idly seek.
She goes cooing like a dove,
And no sun may brown or pimple
Her soft face's precious dimple
And the smile divinely simple;
While her name is Molly Love,
While her name is Molly Love.
And I ask no better choice
Than to watch her running free and wild,
With the babble of her voice—
With the babble of her voice;
There is grace in every movement,
There is magic in her hair,
And her pose defies improvement—
Any painter might despair;
While the colour falls and rises
On her perfect rounded cheek,
With the sweetest of surprises
You would elsewhere idly seek—
You would elsewhere idly seek.
She goes cooing like a dove,
And no sun may brown or pimple
Her soft face's precious dimple
And the smile divinely simple;
While her name is Molly Love,
While her name is Molly Love.
Let the other darlings have their due,
They are blessings and are blest,
But she only has the fairy clue
That can open every breast—
That can open every breast;
She can cheat the wisest pigeon
And it answers to her call,
And her life is a religion
With its innocence in all;
And about her breathes the scenting
Of the blossom we term bliss,
And her red lips drop relenting
If you only look a kiss—
If you only look a kiss.
When she loses hat or glove,
She will peep at me suspicious
With a pout that is delicious
And a murmur half seditious;
Though her name is Molly Love,
Though her name is Molly Love.
They are blessings and are blest,
But she only has the fairy clue
That can open every breast—
That can open every breast;
She can cheat the wisest pigeon
And it answers to her call,
And her life is a religion
With its innocence in all;
And about her breathes the scenting
Of the blossom we term bliss,
433
If you only look a kiss—
If you only look a kiss.
When she loses hat or glove,
She will peep at me suspicious
With a pout that is delicious
And a murmur half seditious;
Though her name is Molly Love,
Though her name is Molly Love.
DAISY.
In the morning, Daisy
Always wakes me with the bliss
Of a calculated kiss,
When my thoughts are hazy
And I cannot guess the time,
And her greeting seems the chime
Of the water and the wind
In some distant land of Ind;
With the morning, fancies
Come with her and lightly play
Just a moment by the way,
Till the whole world dances.
Always wakes me with the bliss
Of a calculated kiss,
When my thoughts are hazy
And I cannot guess the time,
And her greeting seems the chime
Of the water and the wind
In some distant land of Ind;
With the morning, fancies
Come with her and lightly play
Just a moment by the way,
Till the whole world dances.
In the evening, Daisy
Is awakened with a kiss
Which she never takes amiss,
Though so tired and lazy.
And her little crown of gold
Just assumes my fingers' mould,
As I smooth the baby head
Carried gently off to bed.
With the evening stories
Visit her, and make her room
B ossom big from all its gloom;
Into boundless glories.
Is awakened with a kiss
Which she never takes amiss,
Though so tired and lazy.
And her little crown of gold
Just assumes my fingers' mould,
As I smooth the baby head
Carried gently off to bed.
With the evening stories
Visit her, and make her room
B ossom big from all its gloom;
Into boundless glories.
In the winter, Daisy
Cuddled up before the fire
Deems the world in gray attire
Must have quite gone crazy;
Wonders why upon the eaves
Bristles ice, and all the leaves
Making such delightful bowers
Have departed with the flowers;
With the winter, shadows
Take for her surprising shapes,
And in ghostly hoods and capes
Wave on woods and meadows.
Cuddled up before the fire
434
Must have quite gone crazy;
Wonders why upon the eaves
Bristles ice, and all the leaves
Making such delightful bowers
Have departed with the flowers;
With the winter, shadows
Take for her surprising shapes,
And in ghostly hoods and capes
Wave on woods and meadows.
In the summer, Daisy
Wanders all among the trees
With the butterflies and bees,
Through the green and mazy
Circuits of the garden walk,
Bubbling out in baby talk,
Till the birds on every stem
Think that she belongs to them.
With the summer beauty
Of the laughing earth and skies
Pours into her face and eyes,
And to love is duty.
Wanders all among the trees
With the butterflies and bees,
Through the green and mazy
Circuits of the garden walk,
Bubbling out in baby talk,
Till the birds on every stem
Think that she belongs to them.
With the summer beauty
Of the laughing earth and skies
Pours into her face and eyes,
And to love is duty.
ENGLISH MARY.
O I love a maiden nice and neat
And she is my English Mary,
And should others charm and also cheat
She is earthly too if airy;
And if one is fickle as a flame,
Or if one is never still,
She has no deceit and is the same
In her deeds as in her will;
She has not the fancies of a prude
Nor the mischief of an elf,
She could never be a romp or rude,
She must always be herself.
And she shows her nature frank and nude—
She must always be herself.
For her eyes are English gray,
And she has the English way
Of just knowing
What is owing
And about her duties going,
As if working were to pray—
As if working were to pray.
O she is a maiden neat and nice
And without caprices airy,
If I kiss her once I kiss her twice,
For she is my English Mary.
And she is my English Mary,
And should others charm and also cheat
She is earthly too if airy;
And if one is fickle as a flame,
Or if one is never still,
She has no deceit and is the same
In her deeds as in her will;
She has not the fancies of a prude
Nor the mischief of an elf,
She could never be a romp or rude,
She must always be herself.
And she shows her nature frank and nude—
She must always be herself.
435
And she has the English way
Of just knowing
What is owing
And about her duties going,
As if working were to pray—
As if working were to pray.
O she is a maiden neat and nice
And without caprices airy,
If I kiss her once I kiss her twice,
For she is my English Mary.
O I love a maiden tried and true
And she is my English Mary,
Like a rosebud with a touch of rue
And with thorns that make one wary.
For she is too modest to be cheap
And too prudent to be caught,
While she looks before she takes her leap
And she never could be bought.
When her busy hands from morn to night
Are with useful tasks employed,
With the luring song, with swallow flight,
She is not to be decoyed—
With the golden cage and perch of light,
She is not to be decoyed.
For her eyes are English gray,
And she has the English way
Of just doing
Without wooing
Tasks, as doves perform their cooing,
As if working were to play—
As if working were to play.
O she is a maiden true and tried
And in wiser aspects wary,
But the kiss I ask is not denied,
For she is my English Mary.
And she is my English Mary,
Like a rosebud with a touch of rue
And with thorns that make one wary.
For she is too modest to be cheap
And too prudent to be caught,
While she looks before she takes her leap
And she never could be bought.
When her busy hands from morn to night
Are with useful tasks employed,
With the luring song, with swallow flight,
She is not to be decoyed—
With the golden cage and perch of light,
She is not to be decoyed.
For her eyes are English gray,
And she has the English way
Of just doing
Without wooing
Tasks, as doves perform their cooing,
As if working were to play—
As if working were to play.
O she is a maiden true and tried
And in wiser aspects wary,
But the kiss I ask is not denied,
For she is my English Mary.
O I love a maiden pure and strong
And she is my English Mary,
And her voice is as a summer song
Which the moods of April vary.
And she has the grace of common things
Like the blesséd air and light,
With a sweet suspicion as of wings
And a gift of second sight.
And her pleasures have a sadness blent
With the beauty of their tone
And the glory of their gay intent,
Like the shadow on a throne—
But it only crowns her brave consent,
Like the shadow on a throne.
For her eyes are English gray,
And she has the English way
Of just lightly
Bearing brightly
All that comes and acting rightly,
As if working were to pray—
As if working were to pray.
O she is a maiden strong and pure
And her likings do not vary,
When I kiss her cheek she looks demure,
For she is my English Mary.
And she is my English Mary,
And her voice is as a summer song
436
And she has the grace of common things
Like the blesséd air and light,
With a sweet suspicion as of wings
And a gift of second sight.
And her pleasures have a sadness blent
With the beauty of their tone
And the glory of their gay intent,
Like the shadow on a throne—
But it only crowns her brave consent,
Like the shadow on a throne.
For her eyes are English gray,
And she has the English way
Of just lightly
Bearing brightly
All that comes and acting rightly,
As if working were to pray—
As if working were to pray.
O she is a maiden strong and pure
And her likings do not vary,
When I kiss her cheek she looks demure,
For she is my English Mary.
O I love a maiden free and bright
And she is my English Mary,
And her nut-brown hair is my delight
Though its charms are often chary.
She is sober, serious, she is glad,
As if January and June
Here a merry meeting somehow had
And been married to one tune.
And she always says the proper word
In the only proper style,
And is sweetly felt if yet unheard
When you cannot see her smile,
With the precious fragrance she has stirred—
When you cannot see her smile.
For her eyes are English gray,
And she has the English way
Of just rolling
And controlling
All the world, to pay her tolling;
As if working were to play,
As if working were to play.
O she is a maiden bright and free
If her kindness can be chary,
Though she never keeps a kiss from me,
For she is my English Mary.
And she is my English Mary,
And her nut-brown hair is my delight
Though its charms are often chary.
She is sober, serious, she is glad,
As if January and June
Here a merry meeting somehow had
And been married to one tune.
And she always says the proper word
In the only proper style,
And is sweetly felt if yet unheard
When you cannot see her smile,
With the precious fragrance she has stirred—
When you cannot see her smile.
For her eyes are English gray,
And she has the English way
Of just rolling
And controlling
437
As if working were to play,
As if working were to play.
O she is a maiden bright and free
If her kindness can be chary,
Though she never keeps a kiss from me,
For she is my English Mary.
THE LILY CHILD.
Have you seen my pure white Lily Maid
As if carvèn out of snow,
With the great eyes opening half afraid
And with wonder all aglow—
With a question that abides unsaid,
And a heart of fire below?
She goes walking,
She goes talking
Like a queen in royal dress,
In her lustred
Locks and clustered
Crown of girly loveliness.
She is delicate and fragile, wrought
Of the sunbeams and the air,
With a lambent fire of feeling caught
In the tangles of her hair;
And she looks a clear incarnate thought,
Which is made for ever fair.
As if carvèn out of snow,
With the great eyes opening half afraid
And with wonder all aglow—
With a question that abides unsaid,
And a heart of fire below?
She goes walking,
She goes talking
Like a queen in royal dress,
In her lustred
Locks and clustered
Crown of girly loveliness.
She is delicate and fragile, wrought
Of the sunbeams and the air,
With a lambent fire of feeling caught
In the tangles of her hair;
And she looks a clear incarnate thought,
Which is made for ever fair.
O her face is like a lily bell,
It is beautiful and sweet,
And her voice reflects the rippling swell
When the wind and water meet
With a message that no words can tell—
There is music in her feet.
All the lightness
And the brightness
Of the matin birds she takes,
And her vestures
Of their gestures
And their innocence she makes.
For she loves the dawn, and sunny things
Are the comrades of her play,
From the bee that in its blossom swings
To the rosebud in its ray,
And a glory like a garment clings
To the daughter of the day.
It is beautiful and sweet,
And her voice reflects the rippling swell
When the wind and water meet
With a message that no words can tell—
There is music in her feet.
All the lightness
And the brightness
Of the matin birds she takes,
And her vestures
Of their gestures
438
For she loves the dawn, and sunny things
Are the comrades of her play,
From the bee that in its blossom swings
To the rosebud in its ray,
And a glory like a garment clings
To the daughter of the day.
And she is a pure white lily gem
With the passion breaking out,
As the radiance from a floweret stem
And the little buds that pout—
Ah, it decks her like a diadem
And it wraps her round about.
Not in moonshine,
But with noonshine
Does her spirit sparkle up,
In the laughing
Light, as quaffing
Life from Nature's brimming cup.
And the earthly dress most softly lies
On her soul of secret flame,
Which escapes like prayer from her big eyes
While instinct in all her frame,
Like a vision of forgotten skies,
As she lisps the Blesséd Name.
With the passion breaking out,
As the radiance from a floweret stem
And the little buds that pout—
Ah, it decks her like a diadem
And it wraps her round about.
Not in moonshine,
But with noonshine
Does her spirit sparkle up,
In the laughing
Light, as quaffing
Life from Nature's brimming cup.
And the earthly dress most softly lies
On her soul of secret flame,
Which escapes like prayer from her big eyes
While instinct in all her frame,
Like a vision of forgotten skies,
As she lisps the Blesséd Name.
THE PANSY MAID.
She is shy as mosses shaded
By the thickest woodland eaves,
Where the glimmering beams are braided
With the glooming of the leaves.
But she has a perfume all her own,
And a beauty to her dear ones known
That is granted but to few,
And her quiet graces shine the best
When she cradles on the evening's breast
With the twilight and the dew.
And she likes in dim recesses
With the birdies to be laid,
For the butterflies' caresses,
And she is the Pansy Maid.
By the thickest woodland eaves,
Where the glimmering beams are braided
With the glooming of the leaves.
But she has a perfume all her own,
And a beauty to her dear ones known
That is granted but to few,
And her quiet graces shine the best
When she cradles on the evening's breast
With the twilight and the dew.
And she likes in dim recesses
439
For the butterflies' caresses,
And she is the Pansy Maid.
She is quaint and sad and sober,
And a mingling of the May
With the sadness of October
And the glory ere decay.
O she smiles, but babbles not as much
As my other children, and her touch
Has a magic more than art;
For it turns to kindness all it can,
Though it is not conscious of a plan,
And it trembles on the heart.
She is silent, but her fancies
Are most eloquent if staid,
For her life is all romances,
And she is the Pansy Maid.
And a mingling of the May
With the sadness of October
And the glory ere decay.
O she smiles, but babbles not as much
As my other children, and her touch
Has a magic more than art;
For it turns to kindness all it can,
Though it is not conscious of a plan,
And it trembles on the heart.
She is silent, but her fancies
Are most eloquent if staid,
For her life is all romances,
And she is the Pansy Maid.
Ah, I love to catch her dreaming
In some sheltered rosy nook,
And to mark the stories gleaming
On her face's picture book.
When she wanders through enchanted halls,
And the echoes of dim trumpet calls
To her hearing come from far,
At the challenge down the ages sent
With its troubled tidings yet unspent,
As the iron gates unbar.
Like the clouds upon a meadow
And without a word in aid,
I see feeling's every shadow,
And she is the Pansy Maid.
In some sheltered rosy nook,
And to mark the stories gleaming
On her face's picture book.
When she wanders through enchanted halls,
And the echoes of dim trumpet calls
To her hearing come from far,
At the challenge down the ages sent
With its troubled tidings yet unspent,
As the iron gates unbar.
Like the clouds upon a meadow
And without a word in aid,
I see feeling's every shadow,
And she is the Pansy Maid.
When her sisters think of sleeping
In the curtained evening hour,
She is wide awake and keeping
A sweet vigil with some flower.
Her dear lips of love and crimson part,
And her thoughts on some lone journey start
Which she never cares to close,
Till her rich dark locks and darker eyes
On untravelled earth, with unmapt skies,
Find a refuge in repose.
She is drowsy in the morning,
For her pleasures must be paid,
Though her dreams are her adorning,
And she is the Pansy Maid.
In the curtained evening hour,
She is wide awake and keeping
A sweet vigil with some flower.
Her dear lips of love and crimson part,
And her thoughts on some lone journey start
Which she never cares to close,
440
On untravelled earth, with unmapt skies,
Find a refuge in repose.
She is drowsy in the morning,
For her pleasures must be paid,
Though her dreams are her adorning,
And she is the Pansy Maid.
ANONYMA.
O the magic of the moonlight in the starry Southern skies
Crowns her dark delicious hair,
And the passion of the midnight to her large and lanquid eyes
Gives the glamour of an air,
Full of all dear dreams and fancies
And unwritten strange romances;
Grief that as you feel its presence waves its pretty wings and flies,
Glory of a god's despair,
Joy that ere you touch its tender dew and bloom and beauty dies
With the flutter
Of its utter
Ravishment and ecstasies.
Crowns her dark delicious hair,
And the passion of the midnight to her large and lanquid eyes
Gives the glamour of an air,
Full of all dear dreams and fancies
And unwritten strange romances;
Grief that as you feel its presence waves its pretty wings and flies,
Glory of a god's despair,
Joy that ere you touch its tender dew and bloom and beauty dies
With the flutter
Of its utter
Ravishment and ecstasies.
But I rather far would perish than betray her precious name,
For if it were ever told
Then her grace which is her secrecy would vanish as a flame
And her altars would turn cold
In the groves among the mountains,
And the Naiads at the fountains
Would go mourning with dishevelled locks and sweetness not the same
And with faces gray and old;
Ah, the wounded earth would sicken through the fibres of her frame,
If one lover
Did discover
But the shadow of a shame.
For if it were ever told
Then her grace which is her secrecy would vanish as a flame
And her altars would turn cold
In the groves among the mountains,
And the Naiads at the fountains
Would go mourning with dishevelled locks and sweetness not the same
And with faces gray and old;
441
If one lover
Did discover
But the shadow of a shame.
BLIND AND BEAUTIFUL.
Sunlight never shone into her shadowed eyes
With one glimmer sweet,
And the rainbow's feet
Strode not for her once across the earth and skies;
Nowhere did she meet
Angels coming out of the eternities;
Not to her our vision
Opes in dim derision
Gates of pearl in Paradise, where shining shapes
Cheat with kisses cold
And enchanted gold
Dreams that think the very thorns are purple grapes.
With one glimmer sweet,
And the rainbow's feet
Strode not for her once across the earth and skies;
Nowhere did she meet
Angels coming out of the eternities;
Not to her our vision
Opes in dim derision
Gates of pearl in Paradise, where shining shapes
Cheat with kisses cold
And enchanted gold
Dreams that think the very thorns are purple grapes.
Dearly still I loved her wandering through the night
One with laughing day,
On her shrouded way,
Darkly stretching to the unarisen light
Fingers formed to pray,
In the simple faith more beautiful than sight;
For the lamp she kindled
Grew, though others dwindled,
On the secret sources glowing in the mind;
By some higher law,
She it was who saw,
While I groped among mere phantoms and was blind.
One with laughing day,
On her shrouded way,
Darkly stretching to the unarisen light
Fingers formed to pray,
In the simple faith more beautiful than sight;
For the lamp she kindled
Grew, though others dwindled,
On the secret sources glowing in the mind;
By some higher law,
She it was who saw,
While I groped among mere phantoms and was blind.
Now she guides my path and I begin to see
Something of the road,
And without the load
Laid upon me once rejoice that I am free,
Nor require the goad
Of an earthly passion, when I dare to be;
For her pure affection
Trusting is direction,
And I humbly follow still where'er she leads
On the awful ice,
Past the precipice,
Knowing not the inner gospel that she reads.
Something of the road,
And without the load
Laid upon me once rejoice that I am free,
Nor require the goad
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For her pure affection
Trusting is direction,
And I humbly follow still where'er she leads
On the awful ice,
Past the precipice,
Knowing not the inner gospel that she reads.
Some day with her revelation I shall gaze
On the treasures hid
As with coffin lid
From me by the dead world's thick distorting haze;
And, though fate forbid
Now, I yet shall triumph from this mocking maze;
With her conquering kindness
And illumined blindness
Filled and fired I yet shall reach the farther shore,
Where our day is night
And the love is sight
And it is enough to tremble and adore.
On the treasures hid
As with coffin lid
From me by the dead world's thick distorting haze;
And, though fate forbid
Now, I yet shall triumph from this mocking maze;
With her conquering kindness
And illumined blindness
Filled and fired I yet shall reach the farther shore,
Where our day is night
And the love is sight
And it is enough to tremble and adore.
LOST LOVES.
I have loved the shadow and loved the shine
In the wealth of a woman's hair,
For I found the humblest fair,
And the meanest glowed with a grace divine—
With a gift like gold that no arts refine,
And the breath of a holier air;
Ah, I loved them all,
Because each was woman,
And I felt the call
Of the passion human;
Though one was in silk and satin drest,
And one had but rags upon her breast.
In the wealth of a woman's hair,
For I found the humblest fair,
And the meanest glowed with a grace divine—
With a gift like gold that no arts refine,
And the breath of a holier air;
Ah, I loved them all,
Because each was woman,
And I felt the call
Of the passion human;
Though one was in silk and satin drest,
And one had but rags upon her breast.
But some had a dearer charm for me,
And some had a sweeter face
With a warmer white embrace;
For they opened gates in the world to be
When the darkness fades and the discords flee,
That make earth their dwelling-place;
They had redder lips
And daintier tresses,
And a soft eclipse
In their glad caresses;
If this stept out of the cottage door,
And that was queen on a castle floor.
And some had a sweeter face
With a warmer white embrace;
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When the darkness fades and the discords flee,
That make earth their dwelling-place;
They had redder lips
And daintier tresses,
And a soft eclipse
In their glad caresses;
If this stept out of the cottage door,
And that was queen on a castle floor.
There was Joan with the dusky tangled head,
With the ripest rarest mouth
And a passion deep as drouth,
And the pulse of the tempest in her tread
With its wings of glory about her spread
And the glamour of the South;
There was little Fay,
Of the pretty patter,
And the light of day
In her baby chatter;
There was Dorothy with the serious looks,
And Regina's brow like Sacred Books.
With the ripest rarest mouth
And a passion deep as drouth,
And the pulse of the tempest in her tread
With its wings of glory about her spread
And the glamour of the South;
There was little Fay,
Of the pretty patter,
And the light of day
In her baby chatter;
There was Dorothy with the serious looks,
And Regina's brow like Sacred Books.
There was Rose, just a fresh-blown English maid
With gray eyes like an English morn,
And the touch of a gentle scorn
That refused and yet invited aid,
Half-bold for a while and then half-afraid—
And I sometimes felt the thorn;
There was Una kept
In her cage of riches,
And Maude who had stept
As from statued niches;
And gutter Bess, true and good at core,
Who was black but comely and drank and swore.
With gray eyes like an English morn,
And the touch of a gentle scorn
That refused and yet invited aid,
Half-bold for a while and then half-afraid—
And I sometimes felt the thorn;
There was Una kept
In her cage of riches,
And Maude who had stept
As from statued niches;
And gutter Bess, true and good at core,
Who was black but comely and drank and swore.
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TABLES TURNED.
“Let us play at school, dear Father,” said my little girl to me,
“I a thousand times would rather you, not I, should pupil be;
Come, its only just pretending,” and she gaily on me smil'd,
As she saw my face unbending, “I'll be mistress, you the child.”
So I came, and without shame I took the lowest stool;
Now, alas! I keep in class, and always am at school.
“I a thousand times would rather you, not I, should pupil be;
Come, its only just pretending,” and she gaily on me smil'd,
As she saw my face unbending, “I'll be mistress, you the child.”
So I came, and without shame I took the lowest stool;
Now, alas! I keep in class, and always am at school.
Dolly sits in all my places and delights in all my joys,
Or with gravest of grimaces turns my finest things to toys.
Early comes she in the morning, big with lessons for the day,
Pouting lips of scarlet scorning to resume the endless play.
And I bow with patient brow to her imperious will,
Given a store of curious lore and learning humbly still.
Or with gravest of grimaces turns my finest things to toys.
Early comes she in the morning, big with lessons for the day,
Pouting lips of scarlet scorning to resume the endless play.
And I bow with patient brow to her imperious will,
Given a store of curious lore and learning humbly still.
Dolly has the softest sofa, and of course the easiest chair,
While she teaches me my “Do Fa” with a most omniscient air.
O she grasps the whip or sceptre with her dimpled baby hand,
As she hourly grows adepter in the custom of command.
And I hear with reverent ear as her obedient tool,
Stories strange past mortal range, and always am at school.
While she teaches me my “Do Fa” with a most omniscient air.
O she grasps the whip or sceptre with her dimpled baby hand,
As she hourly grows adepter in the custom of command.
And I hear with reverent ear as her obedient tool,
Stories strange past mortal range, and always am at school.
Dolly deals me cuffs and kisses by a sweet impartial law,
While I fathom love's abysses with a dear increasing awe;
She assumes my sternest manner if I ever chance to slip,
And is the most artful planner of surprises meant to trip.
But my cage of narrow stage is like a picture book,
For Dolly's eyes are azure skies and have her mother's look.
While I fathom love's abysses with a dear increasing awe;
She assumes my sternest manner if I ever chance to slip,
And is the most artful planner of surprises meant to trip.
But my cage of narrow stage is like a picture book,
For Dolly's eyes are azure skies and have her mother's look.
445
Dolly brings to me the treasure back which I desire so much,
And renews the nameless pleasure in each dainty tone and touch;
For her little chains are golden and like sunshine on me cast,
While she wakes the blessings olden of the happy promise past.
But I find my bondage kind, and as an Eden cool,
In this drear and desert year, and always am at school.
And renews the nameless pleasure in each dainty tone and touch;
For her little chains are golden and like sunshine on me cast,
While she wakes the blessings olden of the happy promise past.
But I find my bondage kind, and as an Eden cool,
In this drear and desert year, and always am at school.
Dolly comes to me with cooing accents at the evening's call,
Bent on conquests by her wooing words, at which I ever fall;
Gives me tender admonition, which she is convinced will suit,
Leading surely to fruition of some sweet forbidden fruit;
But I dare not, and I care not now to chide her wilful choice,
For her hair is bright and fair, and then she has her mother's voice.
Bent on conquests by her wooing words, at which I ever fall;
Gives me tender admonition, which she is convinced will suit,
Leading surely to fruition of some sweet forbidden fruit;
But I dare not, and I care not now to chide her wilful choice,
For her hair is bright and fair, and then she has her mother's voice.
WEE BABY.
Wee baby, free baby, how I sadly envy you,
Kicking out your feet and hands far above mere custom's bands,
Prison pales and blinding scales, or its pert and pinching shoe;
I am waxing old and shy, I am half a century,
Not your tender crudity;
I don't utter sounds like oaths and disport outside my clothes,
In your fearful nudity;
I daren't scribble on the door, I mayn't sprawl about the floor.
Kicking out your feet and hands far above mere custom's bands,
Prison pales and blinding scales, or its pert and pinching shoe;
I am waxing old and shy, I am half a century,
Not your tender crudity;
I don't utter sounds like oaths and disport outside my clothes,
In your fearful nudity;
I daren't scribble on the door, I mayn't sprawl about the floor.
Wee baby, free baby, spurning others' bolts and bars,
Heeding not our stays and dress in your broad deliciousness,
Spread in state on dish and plate, or annexing my cigars;
You can eat howe'er you will, careless what you spoil or spill,
Checked by no propriety;
There's no border to the deep of your appetite, save sleep,
And your own satiety;
I can't suck my precious thumbs, nor indulge in toes as crumbs.
Heeding not our stays and dress in your broad deliciousness,
446
You can eat howe'er you will, careless what you spoil or spill,
Checked by no propriety;
There's no border to the deep of your appetite, save sleep,
And your own satiety;
I can't suck my precious thumbs, nor indulge in toes as crumbs.
Wee baby, free baby, tyrannising over each,
Parents, servants, great and small, flying to your faintest call
Up the stairs and over chairs—ruling all within your reach;
You can flout the fiercest claws of our pussy cats or laws,
Nobody will hurt you;
For your wildest work is grace—if you slap a Bishop's face,
Every vice is virtue;
I can't play the chartered fool, I must always be at school.
Parents, servants, great and small, flying to your faintest call
Up the stairs and over chairs—ruling all within your reach;
You can flout the fiercest claws of our pussy cats or laws,
Nobody will hurt you;
For your wildest work is grace—if you slap a Bishop's face,
Every vice is virtue;
I can't play the chartered fool, I must always be at school.
Wee baby, free baby, if you break my China things,
And that lovely Dresden dog or the whole great decalogue,
It is just your simple trust trying so your angel wings;
You may set the house on fire, and to your dear heart's desire
Only be undutiful,
Still whatever is abused your worst mischiefs are excused
As most right and beautiful;
I daren't crack the slightest code in one room of my abode.
And that lovely Dresden dog or the whole great decalogue,
It is just your simple trust trying so your angel wings;
You may set the house on fire, and to your dear heart's desire
Only be undutiful,
Still whatever is abused your worst mischiefs are excused
As most right and beautiful;
I daren't crack the slightest code in one room of my abode.
Wee baby, free baby, everything you say is wise,
Everything you do is good openly or understood—
Running pins into our chins or fat knuckles in the eyes;
Every blunder, every wile wakes a fond maternal smile
At your strange precocity,
Every breeze of trouble raised by those naughty hands is praised—
Every new atrocity;
I mayn't ruffle nurse's hair, or her temper, past repair.
Everything you do is good openly or understood—
Running pins into our chins or fat knuckles in the eyes;
Every blunder, every wile wakes a fond maternal smile
At your strange precocity,
447
Every new atrocity;
I mayn't ruffle nurse's hair, or her temper, past repair.
Wee baby, free baby, how I envy you your bib
And your bottle, and your throne where in pride you reign alone
Swaying hearts with pretty arts in the cradle or the crib;
You shall take your royal ease, break whatever you may please—
Heads and legs and crockery;
You shall riot yet and take toll of each delight, and make
All our rules a mockery;
I dare not dispute your will, I am quite obedient still.
And your bottle, and your throne where in pride you reign alone
Swaying hearts with pretty arts in the cradle or the crib;
You shall take your royal ease, break whatever you may please—
Heads and legs and crockery;
You shall riot yet and take toll of each delight, and make
All our rules a mockery;
I dare not dispute your will, I am quite obedient still.
NO-BABY-LAND.
In my travels I arrived long, long ago
And far away,
At a country yet unplaced in maps below—
But not Cathay;
Where the roses reddened not and life seemed deadened
Though in June,
And all being panted and the song birds chanted
Out of tune;
Where a cloud of sadness hung above the earth,
And dimly crost
Every face of man and beast, as with the dearth
Of something lost.
And far away,
At a country yet unplaced in maps below—
But not Cathay;
Where the roses reddened not and life seemed deadened
Though in June,
And all being panted and the song birds chanted
Out of tune;
Where a cloud of sadness hung above the earth,
And dimly crost
Every face of man and beast, as with the dearth
Of something lost.
Backs seemed burdened with a hidden heavy load
And bosoms grieved,
And the brows of brightness wandered from the road
Nor were relieved
By one splendid error, nor dismayed by terror
As they strayed;
While they vainly hearkened for the hope that darkened
And delayed;
For the foliage drooped upon the troubled tree,
And wet eyes turned
Wild with hunger for the visions that they could not see,
Although they burned.
And bosoms grieved,
And the brows of brightness wandered from the road
Nor were relieved
By one splendid error, nor dismayed by terror
As they strayed;
While they vainly hearkened for the hope that darkened
And delayed;
448
And wet eyes turned
Wild with hunger for the visions that they could not see,
Although they burned.
There the people lived and lived and never died
In weary pain,
Immortality's grim curse was to them tied
An endless chain;
So they dumbly waited in their lot belated
Through the years,
For the yearned for blessing that would fall caressing
On their ears;
But the æons dealt with Time as if a toy
And still the same,
Though they watched for that yet unexpected joy
Which never came.
In weary pain,
Immortality's grim curse was to them tied
An endless chain;
So they dumbly waited in their lot belated
Through the years,
For the yearned for blessing that would fall caressing
On their ears;
But the æons dealt with Time as if a toy
And still the same,
Though they watched for that yet unexpected joy
Which never came.
But at first I wondered how they asked for death
With every woe,
While they held that boon of everlasting breath
Their greatest foe;
How they sought with praying for the dire decaying
Of the mould,
And for doom of martyrdom would gladly barter
Gems and gold;
Why the shadow of a secret sorrow lay on all
And coldly threw
Blight of bondage on the country like a pall,
And deeper grew.
With every woe,
While they held that boon of everlasting breath
Their greatest foe;
How they sought with praying for the dire decaying
Of the mould,
And for doom of martyrdom would gladly barter
Gems and gold;
Why the shadow of a secret sorrow lay on all
And coldly threw
Blight of bondage on the country like a pall,
And deeper grew.
Then my eyes were opened and I sighed, I found
No children there,
Though I journeyed high and low and far around
And everywhere;
For I drank no purling voices, saw no curling
Yellow hair
O'er dear foreheads dancing, nor white maidens glancing
On the stair;
Ah, I heard no patter of the busy feet
That knew no rest,
Echoing for ever in the house or street—
And through my breast.
No children there,
Though I journeyed high and low and far around
And everywhere;
For I drank no purling voices, saw no curling
Yellow hair
O'er dear foreheads dancing, nor white maidens glancing
On the stair;
Ah, I heard no patter of the busy feet
That knew no rest,
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And through my breast.
Nowise there might be the touch of tiny hand
In pretty scorn,
For this was the dolorous realm No-baby-land
Where none were born;
Thus no room was furnished and no life was burnished
With their play,
And the land seemed pining for that sweet refining
Childhood's way;
Yes, a blank that only this could feed and fill
In every part,
Made a desert and opprest with untold ill
Each empty heart.
In pretty scorn,
For this was the dolorous realm No-baby-land
Where none were born;
Thus no room was furnished and no life was burnished
With their play,
And the land seemed pining for that sweet refining
Childhood's way;
Yes, a blank that only this could feed and fill
In every part,
Made a desert and opprest with untold ill
Each empty heart.
DORCAS.
Her needle was the simple sword, wherewith she strove for HimWho was her only Light and Lord upon that pathway dim.
But bravely did she face the foe and every evil spot,
She was too busy far to know if she had crown or not.
She never wept, she could not spare a single hour for grief,
When all that world of cruel care surged round her for relief.
They offered her most precious bribes to bid an angel stay,
But heedless of their gifts and gibes she had no time for play.
When trouble overcast her road, and fell with illness too,
She heeded not the heavier load while there was work to do.
She took her sunshine to the shade where sisters pined and bled,
And for the sick and suffering made her love a golden bed.
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Which carried healing in its touch with heavenly glory hedged.
She toiled when others sank in sleep, her purpose was so large,
The deep within her called to deep—two oceans without marge.
Death often passed her holy way with service smelling sweet,
But yielded like the potter's clay beneath her steadfast feet.
Her mighty heart could make no room for weakness or for wrong,
And turned the misery or gloom to beauty blithe as song.
The tears that brooded at her heart yet never leapt to light,
Lest they might do the wrecker's part and dim another's sight.
And when her body came to lie down with its duties gone,
Her noble spirit did not die—her life went working on.
VENIT, VIDIT, VICIT!
He came across the mountain, he came across the moor,
His heart was like a fountain, and if in vesture poor
Yet bubbled up with laughter and overflowed in joy
That lit the whole hereafter and made the earth its toy;
He chose the splendid chancing that kept his purpose strong;
And every step was dancing and every word a song.
His heart was like a fountain, and if in vesture poor
Yet bubbled up with laughter and overflowed in joy
That lit the whole hereafter and made the earth its toy;
He chose the splendid chancing that kept his purpose strong;
And every step was dancing and every word a song.
Beneath him spread the city in all its palaced pride,
Nor asked he man for pity, nor turned he once aside;
The world lay full before him, and heaven about him hung
Bright pictures to implore him, and he was free and strong;
New glories on him glancing concealed the crime and wrong,
And every step was dancing and every word a song.
Nor asked he man for pity, nor turned he once aside;
The world lay full before him, and heaven about him hung
Bright pictures to implore him, and he was free and strong;
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And every step was dancing and every word a song.
Behind him now the squalor of cottage days grew dim,
And larger life through pallor of poverty to him
With golden promise pointed and opened wide its gate,
As if he were anointed for some imperial fate;
He heard the horses prancing, he saw the glittering throng,
And every step was dancing and every word a song.
And larger life through pallor of poverty to him
With golden promise pointed and opened wide its gate,
As if he were anointed for some imperial fate;
He heard the horses prancing, he saw the glittering throng,
And every step was dancing and every word a song.
He felt his spirit rising and equal to the hour,
And nothing was surprising when fancy burst in flower;
It seemed familiar beauty, it seemed his native land
That called him to the duty of some well known command;
It was his own advancing, which he had waited long,
And every step was dancing and every word a song.
And nothing was surprising when fancy burst in flower;
It seemed familiar beauty, it seemed his native land
That called him to the duty of some well known command;
It was his own advancing, which he had waited long,
And every step was dancing and every word a song.
The riches were his treasure, the gallant pomp his spoil,
Attending just his pleasure—the conquering of his toil;
He dreamed not of disaster, he would not brook a fall,
His faith was more than master of destiny and all;
The touch of its entrancing would break the captive thong,
And every step was dancing and every word a song.
Attending just his pleasure—the conquering of his toil;
He dreamed not of disaster, he would not brook a fall,
His faith was more than master of destiny and all;
The touch of its entrancing would break the captive thong,
And every step was dancing and every word a song.
But then he entered lightly the city and its crowd,
That yielded to him brightly as to the sun a cloud;
The years like moments hasted in visions of a dream,
No goodly work was wasted nor hope that had a gleam;
The real seemed but romancing, each struggle made him strong,
And every step was dancing and every word a song.
That yielded to him brightly as to the sun a cloud;
The years like moments hasted in visions of a dream,
No goodly work was wasted nor hope that had a gleam;
The real seemed but romancing, each struggle made him strong,
And every step was dancing and every word a song.
THE PASSING OF THE PRINCE.
I am waiting, I am waiting for the Passing of the Prince,
They assured me he was near,
And I dried the rebel tear
Which was falling then and calling for his presence—but not since;
For they bade me and they made me hope for something new and sweet—
That would raise my little life
From the trouble and the strife
To a splendour true and tender—if I only touched his feet;
And his brightness lent a lightness to their voices as they spoke
In their fulness of his love,
That it lifted me above
All my meekness and the weakness and my heart in blossom broke.
They assured me he was near,
And I dried the rebel tear
Which was falling then and calling for his presence—but not since;
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That would raise my little life
From the trouble and the strife
To a splendour true and tender—if I only touched his feet;
And his brightness lent a lightness to their voices as they spoke
In their fulness of his love,
That it lifted me above
All my meekness and the weakness and my heart in blossom broke.
For they told me he would hold me for a moment in his arms,
And upon me look and smile
In his glory for a while,
If a lonely child gave only these white lilies' maiden charms;
And that blessing and caressing is the one thing that I miss,
It would broaden my poor fate
To a queenlier estate,
And my petty life turn pretty with the wonder of his kiss;
So I humbly here and dumbly through the weary hours have stood,
Though I know I cannot see
How all-beautiful is he,
But his kindness to my blindness will be merciful and good.
And upon me look and smile
In his glory for a while,
If a lonely child gave only these white lilies' maiden charms;
And that blessing and caressing is the one thing that I miss,
It would broaden my poor fate
To a queenlier estate,
And my petty life turn pretty with the wonder of his kiss;
So I humbly here and dumbly through the weary hours have stood,
Though I know I cannot see
How all-beautiful is he,
But his kindness to my blindness will be merciful and good.
From the morning in adorning of their silk and satin dress
I have heard the ladies go
With a rustling shine and show,
Horse and carriage to his marriage by my meaner lowliness;
And their laughter echoed after in the distance as they drove
In their pageantry and pride,
And so near my very side
That misgiving with the living burning trust a season strove;
And the shadows on the meadows now I feel are growing dim,
But I'm hoping still, if some
May be doubting he will come,
And the longer kept the stronger is my simple faith in him.
I have heard the ladies go
With a rustling shine and show,
Horse and carriage to his marriage by my meaner lowliness;
And their laughter echoed after in the distance as they drove
In their pageantry and pride,
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That misgiving with the living burning trust a season strove;
And the shadows on the meadows now I feel are growing dim,
But I'm hoping still, if some
May be doubting he will come,
And the longer kept the stronger is my simple faith in him.
I am waiting, I am waiting for the Passing of the Prince
Who is perfect and most fair,
And his presence in the air
Is all fragrant, and my vagrant mood has never wandered since;
He is praying, he is playing, he is tired and asks for rest,
He is feasting in his hall,
But will quickly know my call,
And with speeding step and heeding care yet fold me to his breast;
If he tarry on I carry his great love that cannot lie
Like a picture in my heart,
As its best and dearest part—
In the darkening I am hearkening for his blessing, though I die.
Who is perfect and most fair,
And his presence in the air
Is all fragrant, and my vagrant mood has never wandered since;
He is praying, he is playing, he is tired and asks for rest,
He is feasting in his hall,
But will quickly know my call,
And with speeding step and heeding care yet fold me to his breast;
If he tarry on I carry his great love that cannot lie
Like a picture in my heart,
As its best and dearest part—
In the darkening I am hearkening for his blessing, though I die.
ANGELICA.
Eyes of yellow—
Nay, soft hazel dashed with gold,
Each a pleased and perfect fellow
To the light of love untold;
Lips as mellow
With their warm delicious red,
As God makes them and man takes them
For his own and bridal bed.
Shy,
And delicate—O yes,
With each action a caress;
Beautiful and maidenly,
Made for many to implore
And for someone to adore;
With no movement not improvement,
On the grace that went before.
Nay, soft hazel dashed with gold,
Each a pleased and perfect fellow
To the light of love untold;
Lips as mellow
With their warm delicious red,
As God makes them and man takes them
For his own and bridal bed.
Shy,
And delicate—O yes,
With each action a caress;
Beautiful and maidenly,
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And for someone to adore;
With no movement not improvement,
On the grace that went before.
Cheeks of roses
White, when sunset on them lies,
And the daintiest of noses
Turning to her native skies;
Form with poses
Wonderful and nice and new,
Ever shifting, ever lifting
Glories in their fresh first dew.
Hair
A tawny troubled mass,
With the gleams that glint and pass
Ere you wonder why so fair;
Shade and shine that ebb and flow,
Now in glimmer, now in glow,
And dear blushes as the flushes
On a virgin peak of snow.
White, when sunset on them lies,
And the daintiest of noses
Turning to her native skies;
Form with poses
Wonderful and nice and new,
Ever shifting, ever lifting
Glories in their fresh first dew.
Hair
A tawny troubled mass,
With the gleams that glint and pass
Ere you wonder why so fair;
Shade and shine that ebb and flow,
Now in glimmer, now in glow,
And dear blushes as the flushes
On a virgin peak of snow.
Voice of utter
Sweetness, meant to govern man,
And to shake the brazen shutter
Of his most determined plan;
Hands that flutter
Pure as kisses touched with fire,
With a quelling and compelling
Gesture that restrains desire.
Feet
That never walk but glide
As adown some singing tide,
Where the wind and water meet,
With a ripple and a rest,
All of calm and motion's zest
Mixed in marriage—theirs the carriage,
Of the true Divine and blest.
Sweetness, meant to govern man,
And to shake the brazen shutter
Of his most determined plan;
Hands that flutter
Pure as kisses touched with fire,
With a quelling and compelling
Gesture that restrains desire.
Feet
That never walk but glide
As adown some singing tide,
Where the wind and water meet,
With a ripple and a rest,
All of calm and motion's zest
Mixed in marriage—theirs the carriage,
Of the true Divine and blest.
Frock of fitting
Texture, which I dare not name,
Moulded to each fine and flitting
Turn, and more like bodied flame;
As unwitting,
It is other than a part
Of her meekness and completeness
Which need borrow nought of art.
Bust
That shelters holy things,
Broken prayers and bruised wings,
Seat of gentleness and trust;
Cold to evil, but to good
In its depth not understood,
Likest Heaven with its leaven
Of the widest womanhood.
Texture, which I dare not name,
Moulded to each fine and flitting
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As unwitting,
It is other than a part
Of her meekness and completeness
Which need borrow nought of art.
Bust
That shelters holy things,
Broken prayers and bruised wings,
Seat of gentleness and trust;
Cold to evil, but to good
In its depth not understood,
Likest Heaven with its leaven
Of the widest womanhood.
Life of gladness
Infinite and strong and free,
But with all the joys of sadness
Which have been and yet shall be;
Conquering madness
And the moods of wayward will,
By her fences' innocences,
Ere they darken into ill.
Love
As light that garments her,
Like a silver gossamer
Spun in sacred courts above;
Blossoming in every deed,
And at heart the secret seed
Of the duty done, a beauty
Better than the proudest creed.
Infinite and strong and free,
But with all the joys of sadness
Which have been and yet shall be;
Conquering madness
And the moods of wayward will,
By her fences' innocences,
Ere they darken into ill.
Love
As light that garments her,
Like a silver gossamer
Spun in sacred courts above;
Blossoming in every deed,
And at heart the secret seed
Of the duty done, a beauty
Better than the proudest creed.
FOUNTS OF LIFE.
Only a country wench, and a simple
Face full of rustic rest,
Clasping a rosy ball with a dimple—
Baby that nosed the breast.
Face full of rustic rest,
Clasping a rosy ball with a dimple—
Baby that nosed the breast.
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Framed in the doorway, there she was netting
Hard at her double toil,
Feeding her tyrant, sturdily letting
Love into lips and coil.
Hard at her double toil,
Feeding her tyrant, sturdily letting
Love into lips and coil.
Gold was the sunrise, gray were the arching
Heavens with wind at strife,
Down through the thirsty throat and its parching
Murmured the founts of life.
Heavens with wind at strife,
Down through the thirsty throat and its parching
Murmured the founts of life.
There were the rent-worth pigs as they guzzled
Wash with a noisy zest,
There was the clinging baby that nuzzled
Boldly the warm white breast.
Wash with a noisy zest,
There was the clinging baby that nuzzled
Boldly the warm white breast.
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