 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
A WOMAN'S BREAST.
The wheels of iron Labour never rest,
That from their demon mills
Beat out, in lives of men all over-prest,
The grinding task that kills
Its countless tools and fools, unknown, unblest,
And heaps up bloody bills;
While callous Greed its dirty gain invests,
In dirtier tills.
That from their demon mills
Beat out, in lives of men all over-prest,
The grinding task that kills
Its countless tools and fools, unknown, unblest,
And heaps up bloody bills;
While callous Greed its dirty gain invests,
In dirtier tills.
Onward, yet onward speeds the shuttle, Thought,
Wherewith the spirit plies
Penelope's old web, so richly wrought
In glittering loves and lies,
With hope that every hour is sold and bought,
And vainly heavenward flies,
Mingling with monstrous dreams that are but nought
Eternal ties.
Wherewith the spirit plies
Penelope's old web, so richly wrought
In glittering loves and lies,
With hope that every hour is sold and bought,
And vainly heavenward flies,
Mingling with monstrous dreams that are but nought
Eternal ties.
Faster, still faster rushes the grim race
For riches, or the spoil
Of party in the foremost honour's place,
Won by dishonour's soil,
Or the resplendent charms of some fair face
That like a serpent coil;
And no one heeds the goal or the disgrace,
In ceaseless toil.
For riches, or the spoil
Of party in the foremost honour's place,
Won by dishonour's soil,
428
That like a serpent coil;
And no one heeds the goal or the disgrace,
In ceaseless toil.
To pause one moment is to be left out,
Within the dark and cold,—
Alone with baby lips, that plead and pout
For the lost mother's hold—
With shattered frames that die, and are in doubt
Of riddles dim and old—
With broken wings that, though the battle shout,
Cannot unfold.
Within the dark and cold,—
Alone with baby lips, that plead and pout
For the lost mother's hold—
With shattered frames that die, and are in doubt
Of riddles dim and old—
With broken wings that, though the battle shout,
Cannot unfold.
The pace grows fiercer, as I long to stay
The feet, unwilling torn
From each new refuge in some blessèd ray
Flashed from some brighter morn;
How shall I dare to stop or even delay,
And victim be of scorn?
Ah, as I snatch at peace, I am away
More helpless borne.
The feet, unwilling torn
From each new refuge in some blessèd ray
Flashed from some brighter morn;
How shall I dare to stop or even delay,
And victim be of scorn?
Ah, as I snatch at peace, I am away
More helpless borne.
Child-like with lessons that I scarce may con,
Or like a haunted guest
Hurried from banquet which a second shone
Above a blasting pest;
I know, though ages should have come and gone,
I never might find rest,
Unless I plucked it from the grave, or on
A woman's breast.
Or like a haunted guest
Hurried from banquet which a second shone
Above a blasting pest;
I know, though ages should have come and gone,
I never might find rest,
Unless I plucked it from the grave, or on
A woman's breast.
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |