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186
OF WOMAN.
It was a silken woman of the world
That of fond Herod claimed the Baptist's head:
“If this sad virtue gets to countenance,
Our dancing's done with, in the quickest way.”
And, for a painted toy, the anointed brow
That knew the Christ's significance must fall.
That of fond Herod claimed the Baptist's head:
“If this sad virtue gets to countenance,
Our dancing's done with, in the quickest way.”
And, for a painted toy, the anointed brow
That knew the Christ's significance must fall.
Such deadly power is hid in smallest things:
The Aspic might have chilled from Love's delight
The bosom it assisted to Love's end.
The shaft of death is subtle as a thread,—
The air may bring, the garland's bloom conceal,—
One desperate finger holds it over us,
Or in a woman's snowy breast it lies.
Teach, then, the woman all the Prophet's worth,
So will she bow the tresses of her head
To yield him passing homage, and pour out
The treasure of her life to ransom his.
The Aspic might have chilled from Love's delight
The bosom it assisted to Love's end.
The shaft of death is subtle as a thread,—
The air may bring, the garland's bloom conceal,—
One desperate finger holds it over us,
Or in a woman's snowy breast it lies.
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So will she bow the tresses of her head
To yield him passing homage, and pour out
The treasure of her life to ransom his.
I love the woman with the woman's heart,
Giving, not gathering,—shedding light abroad
As the man glooms it in, for midnight toil.
Better our Hebrew Eve, who shares with love
The guilty glory of her stolen prize,
Than the three haughty Heathen who rose up,
Claiming of man a vain pre-eminence,—
Not his to give,—God's only, and the heart's.
Giving, not gathering,—shedding light abroad
As the man glooms it in, for midnight toil.
Better our Hebrew Eve, who shares with love
The guilty glory of her stolen prize,
Than the three haughty Heathen who rose up,
Claiming of man a vain pre-eminence,—
Not his to give,—God's only, and the heart's.
They showed me drawings by a six-years' child
Of beasts incongruous, harnessed to a car:
“Now, on my life, he is artist-born,” I said.
“Wherefore? You see the slim camelopard
Rearing her strength up, pulling from the head;
While the swift horses stretch to twice their length,
Spinning themselves to slender threads of speed,
Nay, with their iron sinews knitting up
A belt of haste like that our Shakspeare drew
With Puck's impatient malice, round the world.
The little one has guessed the trick of strength
And action, so is artist-born,” I say.
Of beasts incongruous, harnessed to a car:
“Now, on my life, he is artist-born,” I said.
“Wherefore? You see the slim camelopard
Rearing her strength up, pulling from the head;
While the swift horses stretch to twice their length,
Spinning themselves to slender threads of speed,
Nay, with their iron sinews knitting up
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With Puck's impatient malice, round the world.
The little one has guessed the trick of strength
And action, so is artist-born,” I say.
“For your true artist knows how all things work;
Bestows no Zephyrus to prop a pile
Whose angles huge insult his littleness,
Cramping the sympathetic soul with pain,
But the great patient forms whose shoulders broad
Invite such burthens; whose fixed features say,
‘This weight contents us; we are glad in strength;’
While the light figure poises at the top,
Holding the heavy network gathered up
To meet the apex of his graciousness.
Bestows no Zephyrus to prop a pile
Whose angles huge insult his littleness,
Cramping the sympathetic soul with pain,
But the great patient forms whose shoulders broad
Invite such burthens; whose fixed features say,
‘This weight contents us; we are glad in strength;’
While the light figure poises at the top,
Holding the heavy network gathered up
To meet the apex of his graciousness.
So, Sisters, leave the weightier tasks of strength,
The underpinnings of society,
And flutter with your graces nearer heaven.
He thinks of you, the steadfast Caryatid,—
The faithful arches clasp their hands beneath
To keep you in your breathless eminence;
The gloomy cellar way, the weary stair,
Exalt the platform where you reign serene.
The underpinnings of society,
And flutter with your graces nearer heaven.
He thinks of you, the steadfast Caryatid,—
The faithful arches clasp their hands beneath
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The gloomy cellar way, the weary stair,
Exalt the platform where you reign serene.
Stay there, Beloved, the Angel at the top,
That crowns and lightens all the heavy work.
The very prisoners, entering at the grate,
Perceive an intercession in thine eyes,
And keep their dungeons, waiting for thy sword.
Stay thus, my Angel, seeing over thee
The Heaven that dreamed the Mary and her Christ,—
The dream whereat the Baby Earth awoke,
And, smiling, keeps that smile forever more.”
That crowns and lightens all the heavy work.
The very prisoners, entering at the grate,
Perceive an intercession in thine eyes,
And keep their dungeons, waiting for thy sword.
Stay thus, my Angel, seeing over thee
The Heaven that dreamed the Mary and her Christ,—
The dream whereat the Baby Earth awoke,
And, smiling, keeps that smile forever more.”
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