Part 17

Give her not genius. Spare her the cruel pain Of finding her whole life a prey for daws; Of hearing with quickened sense and burning brain The world’s sneer-tinged applause.

Give her not perfect beauty’s gifts. For then Her truthful mirror would infuse her mind With love for self, and for the praise of men, That lowers woman-kind.

But make her fair and comely to the sight, Give her more heart than brain, more love than pride. Let her be tender-thoughted, cheerful, bright, Some strong man’s star and guide.

Not vainly questioning why she was sent Into this restless world of toil and strife, Let her go bravely on her way, content To make the best of life.

ROMNEY

Nay, Romney, nay—I will not hear you say Those words again: “I love you, love you sweet!” You are profane—blasphemous. I repeat, You are no actor for so grand a play.

You love with all your heart? Well, that may be; Some cups are fashioned shallow. Should I try To quench my thirst from one of those, when dry— I who have had a full bowl proffered me—

A new bowl brimming with a draught divine, One single taste thrilled to the finger-tips? Think you I even care to bathe my lips With this poor sweetened water you call wine?

And though I spilled the nectar ere ’twas quaffed, And broke the bowl in wanton folly, yet I would die of my thirst ere I would wet My burning lips with any meaner draught.

So leave me, Romney. One who has seen a play Enacted by a star cannot endure To see it rendered by an amateur. You know not what Love is—now go away!

MY HOME

This is the place that I love the best, A little brown house like a ground-bird’s nest, Hid among grasses, and vines, and trees, Summer retreat of the birds and bees.

The tenderest light that ever was seen Sifts through the vine-made window screen— Sifts and quivers, and flits and falls On home-made carpets and gray-hung walls.

All through June, the west wind free The breath of the clover brings to me. All through the languid July day I catch the scent of the new-mown hay.

The morning glories and scarlet vine Over the doorway twist and twine; And every day, when the house is still, The humming-bird comes to the window-sill.

In the cunningest chamber under the sun I sink to sleep when the day is done; And am waked at morn, in my snow-white bed, By a singing-bird on the roof o’erhead.

Better than treasures brought from Rome Are the living pictures I see at home— My aged father, with frosted hair, And mother’s face like a painting rare Far from the city’s dust and heat, I get but sounds and odours sweet. Who can wonder I love to stay, Week after week, here hidden away, In this sly nook that I love the best— The little brown house, like a ground-bird’s nest?

TO MARRY OR NOT TO MARRY? A GIRL’S REVERIE

Mother says, “Be in no hurry, Marriage oft means care and worry.”

Auntie says, with manner grave, “Wife is synonym for slave.”

Father asks, in tones commanding, “How does Bradstreet rate his standing?”

Sister crooning to her twins, Sighs, “With marriage care begins.”

Grandma, near life’s closing days, Murmurs, “Sweet are girlhood’s ways.”

Maud, twice widowed (“sod and grass”) Looks at me and moans “Alas!”

They are six, and I am one, Life for me has just begun.

They are older, calmer, wiser: Age should aye be youth’s adviser.

They must know—and yet, dear me, When in Harry’s eyes I see

All the world of love there burning— On my six advisers turning,