He had never kindly heart, Nor ever cared to better his own kind, Who first wrote satire, with no pity in it. -Ibid.
That neither God nor man can well forgive. -Ibid.
Yet was there one thro' whom I loved her, one
Not learned, save in gracious household ways,
Not perfect, nay, but full of tender wants;
No angel, but a dearer being, all dipt
In angel instincts, breathing Paradise,
Interpreter between the Gods and men,
Who look'd all native to her place, and yet
On tiptoe seem'd to touch upon a sphere
Too gross to tread, and all male minds perforce
Sway'd to her from their orbits as they moved,
And girdled her with music. Happy he
With such a mother! faith in womankind
Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high
Comes easy to him, and tho' he trip and fall
He shall not blind his soul with clay.
Woman is not undevelopt man,
But diverse; could we make her as the man,
Sweet Love were slain; his dearest bond is this,
Not like to like, but like in difference.
Yet in the long years liker must they grow.
The man be more of woman, she of man;
He gain in sweetness and in moral height,
Nor lose the wrestling thews that throw the world;
She mental breadth nor fail in childward care,
Nor lose the childlike in the larger mind;
Till at the last she set herself to man,
Like perfect music into noble words.
NIGHT. "Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white; Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk; Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font; The fire-fly wakens.”
PEACE. Peace sitting under her olive, and slurring the days gone by,
When the poor are hovel'd and hustled together, each sex, like swine;
When only the ledger lives, and when only not all men lie;
Peace in her vineyard—yes!—but a company forges the wine. -Maud.