 | Benoni |  |
106
LIKE TO LIKE.
Thou canst not fill my better self with love,
Nor be to my true heart of hearts a bride—
Woman, who bearest all thou hast of grace
And loveliness and womanhood about
Thy palpable exterior, nor dost leave
To him who wooes thee with inquiring eyes
And something more than lust, the mystery
And sweet suspense of search—the long-drawn thrill
Of joy, as ever by the mazy path
Some glad assurance brightens out of hope,
Up to the glorious bourne: joy such as waits
On stainless hearts alone and wise, who know
Because they love, and love because they know.
Nor be to my true heart of hearts a bride—
Woman, who bearest all thou hast of grace
And loveliness and womanhood about
Thy palpable exterior, nor dost leave
To him who wooes thee with inquiring eyes
And something more than lust, the mystery
And sweet suspense of search—the long-drawn thrill
Of joy, as ever by the mazy path
Some glad assurance brightens out of hope,
Up to the glorious bourne: joy such as waits
On stainless hearts alone and wise, who know
Because they love, and love because they know.
Whether, in cottage or in kitchen bred,
Thy spirit be but fashion'd to thy lot
And to thy frame made coarse, by Him who fits
The worker to the work, and from the hand
Of Labour hides its own unseemliness:
Or whether on the uplands, where pure Thought
Blows fresh and full upon thee, and thy place
Doth force thee from the sun of Intellect
To catch some surface-brightness,—whether here
Thou still be stolid, sensuous, and obese
Of spirit, lengthening o'er the zenith-blaze
Great morning-shadows—making part of that
Insipid mass that gives to every taste
A rarer sweetness,—if there be, in whom
Some purer craving yet abides, unchoked
By drifting avalanche, and gusts of sin,
And noisy commerce with the thick high-roads,
How can such love suffice?—Go, spend on souls
Abreast of thine thy tenderness, and leave
Me to my truer knowledge (knowledge oft,
Alas! unblossom'd into act) of how
Contemptible thy deepest worth,—how vile
When thou, immortal Woman, with vain toys
And transient shows of sense canst thus decoy
And cheat the sovereign spirit, and, unshamed
Making thine outer than thine inner self
More winsome, so canst charm the guerdon-crown
Of love and honour from immortal Man!
Thy spirit be but fashion'd to thy lot
107
The worker to the work, and from the hand
Of Labour hides its own unseemliness:
Or whether on the uplands, where pure Thought
Blows fresh and full upon thee, and thy place
Doth force thee from the sun of Intellect
To catch some surface-brightness,—whether here
Thou still be stolid, sensuous, and obese
Of spirit, lengthening o'er the zenith-blaze
Great morning-shadows—making part of that
Insipid mass that gives to every taste
A rarer sweetness,—if there be, in whom
Some purer craving yet abides, unchoked
By drifting avalanche, and gusts of sin,
And noisy commerce with the thick high-roads,
How can such love suffice?—Go, spend on souls
Abreast of thine thy tenderness, and leave
Me to my truer knowledge (knowledge oft,
Alas! unblossom'd into act) of how
Contemptible thy deepest worth,—how vile
When thou, immortal Woman, with vain toys
And transient shows of sense canst thus decoy
108
Making thine outer than thine inner self
More winsome, so canst charm the guerdon-crown
Of love and honour from immortal Man!
What tho' my fingers thro' rich ravell'd hair
Wander deliciously, and lose themselves
'Mid softest clusters of thick curls,—what tho'
My hot lips skim the bloom from some sweet face,
And sip bewildering kisses as they go,—
What tho' I fondly move my lingering touch
Down lovesome arms, and secret bosoms warm
With love and throbbing with delight,—what tho'
I wheel around the edge of wantonness,
And boldly brush the darkening skirts of sin?—
An hour of pleasures such as these, and I
Have learnt thy charms by heart: what then? They know
No fair dissolving changes, like the mind's;
But—tho' the artistic skill to shape and wreathe
And set anew, and weave transforming guise
Be thine—for ever dwell in sameness, till
They droop toward worse; and who would stay to watch
The ebbing tide, who mark'd it at the full?
Wander deliciously, and lose themselves
'Mid softest clusters of thick curls,—what tho'
My hot lips skim the bloom from some sweet face,
And sip bewildering kisses as they go,—
What tho' I fondly move my lingering touch
Down lovesome arms, and secret bosoms warm
With love and throbbing with delight,—what tho'
I wheel around the edge of wantonness,
And boldly brush the darkening skirts of sin?—
An hour of pleasures such as these, and I
Have learnt thy charms by heart: what then? They know
No fair dissolving changes, like the mind's;
But—tho' the artistic skill to shape and wreathe
And set anew, and weave transforming guise
109
They droop toward worse; and who would stay to watch
The ebbing tide, who mark'd it at the full?
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