For this my mother wrapped me warm,
And called me home against the storm,
And coaxed my infant nights to quiet,
And gave me roughage in my diet,
And tucked me in my bed at eight,
And clipped my hair, and marked my weight,
And watched me as I sat and stood:
That I might grow to womanhood
To hear a whistle and drop my wits
And break my heart to clattering bits.

God's acre was her garden-spot, she said;
  She sat there often, of the Summer days,
Little and slim and sweet, among the dead,
  Her hair a fable in the leveled rays.

She turned the fading wreath, the rusted cross,
  And knelt to coax about the wiry stem.
I see her gentle fingers on the moss
  Now it is anguish to remember them.

And once I saw her weeping, when she rose
  And walked a way and turned to look around-
The quick and envious tears of one that knows
  She shall not lie in consecrated ground.

Woman wants monogamy;
Man delights in novelty.
Love is woman's moon and sun;
Man has other forms of fun.
Woman lives but in her lord;
Count to ten, and man is bored.
With this the gist and sum of it,
What earthly good can come of it?

When I admit neglect of Gissing,
They say I don't know what I'm missing.
Until their arguments are subtler,
I think I'll stick to Samuel Butler.

What time the gifted lady took
Away from paper, pen, and book,
She spent in amorous dalliance
(They do those things so well in France).

The day that I was christened--
  It's a hundred years, and more!--
A hag came and listened
  At the white church door,
A-hearing her that bore me
  And all my kith and kin
Considerately, for me,
  Renouncing sin.
While some gave me corals,
  And some gave me gold,
And porringers, with morals
  Agreeably scrolled,
The hag stood, buckled
  In a dim gray cloak;
Stood there and chuckled,
  Spat, and spoke:
"There's few enough in life'll
  Be needing my help,
But I've got a trifle
  For your fine young whelp.
I give her sadness,
  And the gift of pain,
The new-moon madness,
  And the love of rain."
And little good to lave me
  In their holy silver bowl
After what she gave me--
  Rest her soul!

Oh, seek, my love, your newer way;
I'll not be left in sorrow.
So long as I have yesterday,
Go take your ****** tomorrow!

A nobler king had never breath--
  I say it now, and said it then.
Who weds with such is wed till death
  And wedded stays in Heaven. Amen.

(And oh, the shirts of linen-lawn,
  And all the armor, tagged and tied,
And church on Sundays, dusk and dawn.
  And bed a thing to kneel beside!)

The bravest one stood tall above
  The rest, and watched me as a light.
I heard and heard them talk of love;
  I'd naught to do but think, at night.

The bravest man has littlest brains;
  That chalky fool from Astolat
With all her dying and her pains!--
  Thank God, I helped him over that.

I found him not unfair to see--
  I like a man with peppered hair!
And thus it came about. Ah, me,
  Tristram was busied otherwhere....

A nobler king had never breath--
  I say it now, and said it then.
Who weds with such is wed till death
  And wedded stays in Heaven. Amen.

The pure and worthy Mrs. Stowe
Is one we all are proud to know
As mother, wife, and authoress--
Thank God, I am content with less!

Oh, when I flung my heart away,
  The year was at its fall.
I saw my dear, the other day,
  Beside a flowering wall;
And this was all I had to say:
  "I thought that he was tall!"

Half across the world from me
Lie the lands I'll never see--
I, whose longing lives and dies
Where a ship has sailed away;
I, that never close my eyes
But to look upon Cathay.

Things I may not know nor tell
Wait, where older waters swell;
Ways that flowered at Sappho's tread,
Winds that sighed in Homer's strings,
Vibrant with the singing dead,
Golden with the dust of wings.

Under deeper skies than mine,
Quiet valleys dip and shine.
Where their tender grasses heal
Ancient scars of trench and tomb
I shall never walk: nor kneel
Where the bones of poets bloom.

If I seek a lovelier part,
Where I travel goes my heart;
Where I stray my thought must go;
With me wanders my desire.
Best to sit and watch the snow,
Turn the lock, and poke the fire.

I know I have been happiest at your side;
But what is done, is done, and all's to be.
And small the good, to linger dolefully--
Gayly it lived, and gallantly it died.
I will not make you songs of hearts denied,
And you, being man, would have no tears of me,
And should I offer you fidelity,
You'd be, I think, a little terrified.

Yet this the need of woman, this her curse:
To range her little gifts, and give, and give,
Because the throb of giving's sweet to bear.
To you, who never begged me vows or verse,
My gift shall be my absence, while I live;
But after that, my dear, I cannot swear.

And if my heart be scarred and burned,
The safer, I, for all I learned;
The calmer, I, to see it true
That ways of love are never new--
The love that sets you daft and dazed
Is every love that ever blazed;
The happier, I, to fathom this:
A kiss is every other kiss.
The reckless vow, the lovely name,
When Helen walked, were spoke the same;
The weighted breast, the grinding woe,
When Phaon fled, were ever so.
Oh, it is sure as it is sad
That any lad is every lad,
And what's a girl, to dare implore
Her dear be hers forevermore?
Though he be tried and he be bold,
And swearing death should he be cold,
He'll run the path the others went....
But you, my sweet, are different.

In youth, it was a way I had
   To do my best to please,
And change, with every passing lad,
   To suit his theories.

But now I know the things I know,
   And do the things I do;
And if you do not like me so,
   To hell, my love, with you!

Daily dawns another day;
I must up, to make my way.
Though I dress and drink and eat,
Move my fingers and my feet,
Learn a little, here and there,
Weep and laugh and sweat and swear,
Hear a song, or watch a stage,
Leave some words upon a page,
Claim a foe, or hail a friend--
Bed awaits me at the end.

Though I go in pride and strength,
I'll come back to bed at length.
Though I walk in blinded woe,
Back to bed I'm bound to go.
High my heart, or bowed my head,
All my days but lead to bed.
Up, and out, and on; and then
Ever back to bed again,
Summer, Winter, Spring, and Fall--
I'm a fool to rise at all!

Her mind lives in a quiet room,
  A narrow room, and tall,
With pretty lamps to quench the gloom
  And mottoes on the wall.

There all the things are waxen neat
  And set in decorous lines;
And there are posies, round and sweet,
  And little, straightened vines.

Her mind lives tidily, apart
  From cold and noise and pain,
And bolts the door against her heart,
  Out wailing in the rain.

The ladies men admire, I've heard,
Would shudder at a wicked word.
Their candle gives a single light;
They'd rather stay at home at night.
They do not keep awake till three,
Nor read ****** poetry.
They never sanction the impure,
Nor recognize an overture.
They shrink from powders and from paints ...
So far, I've had no complaints.

Four be the things I am wiser to know:
Idleness, sorrow, a friend, and a foe.

Four be the things I'd been better without:
Love, curiosity, freckles, and doubt.

Three be the things I shall never attain:
Envy, content, and sufficient champagne.

Three be the things I shall have till I die:
Laughter and hope and a sock in the eye.

So delicate my hands, and long,
  They might have been my pride.
And there were those to make them song
  Who for their touch had died.

Too frail to cup a heart within,
  Too soft to hold the free--
How long these lovely hands have been
  A bitterness to me!

I shall come back without fanfaronade
Of wailing wind and graveyard panoply;
But, trembling, slip from cool Eternity--
A mild and most bewildered little shade.
I shall not make sepulchral midnight raid,
But softly come where I had longed to be
In April twilight's unsung melody,
And I, not you, shall be the one afraid.

Strange, that from lovely dreamings of the dead
I shall come back to you, who hurt me most.
You may not feel my hand upon your head,
I'll be so new and inexpert a ghost.
Perhaps you will not know that I am near--
And that will break my ghostly heart, my dear.

Now this must be the sweetest place
  From here to heaven's end;
The field is white and flowering lace,
  The birches leap and bend,

The hills, beneath the roving sun,
  From green to purple pass,
And little, trifling breezes run
  Their fingers through the grass.

So good it is, so gay it is,
  So calm it is, and pure.
A one whose eyes may look on this
  Must be the happier, sure.

But me--I see it flat and gray
  And blurred with misery,
Because a lad a mile away
  Has little need of me.

When I was bold, when I was bold--
  And that's a hundred years!--
Oh, never I thought my breast could hold
  The terrible weight of tears.

I said: "Now some be dolorous;
  I hear them wail and sigh,
And if it be Love that play them thus,
  Then never a love will I."

I said: "I see them rack and rue,
  I see them wring and ache,
And little I'll crack my heart in two
  With little the heart can break."

When I was gay, when I was gay--
  It's ninety years and nine!--
Oh, never I thought that Death could lay
  His terrible hand in mine.

I said: "He plies his trade among
  The musty and infirm;
A body so hard and bright and young
  Could never be meat for worm."

"I see him dull their eyes," I said,
  "And still their rattling breath.
And how under God could I be dead
  That never was meant for Death?"

But Love came by, to quench my sleep,
  And here's my sundered heart;
And bitter's my woe, and black, and deep,
  And little I guessed a part.

Yet this there is to cool my breast,
  And this to ease my spell;
Now if I were Love's, like all the rest,
  Then can I be Death's, as well.

And he shall have me, sworn and bound,
  And I'll be done with Love.
And better I'll be below the ground
  Than ever I'll be above.

Joy stayed with me a night--
Young and free and fair--
And in the morning light
He left me there.

Then Sorrow came to stay,
And lay upon my breast
He walked with me in the day.
And knew me best.

I'll never be a bride,
Nor yet celibate,
So I'm living now with Pride--
A cold bedmate.

He must not hear nor see,
Nor could he forgive
That Sorrow still visits me
Each day I live.

Roses, rooted warm in earth,
   Bud in rhyme, another age;
Lilies know a ghostly birth
   Strewn along a patterned page;
Golden lad and chimbley sweep
   Die; and so their song shall keep.

Wind that in Arcadia starts
   In and out a couplet plays;
And the drums of bitter hearts
   Beat the measure of a phrase.
Sweets and woes but come to print
   Quae *** ita sint.

When you are gone, there is nor bloom nor leaf,
  Nor singing sea at night, nor silver birds;
And I can only stare, and shape my grief
  In little words.

I cannot conjure loveliness, to drown
  The bitter woe that racks my cords apart.
The weary pen that sets my sorrow down
  Feeds at my heart.

There is no mercy in the shifting year,
  No beauty wraps me tenderly about.
I turn to little words--so you, my dear,
  Can spell them out.

My own dear love, he is strong and bold
And he cares not what comes after.
His words ring sweet as a chime of gold,
And his eyes are lit with laughter.
He is jubilant as a flag unfurled--
Oh, a girl, she'd not forget him.
My own true love, he is all my world,--
And I wish I'd never met him.

My love, he's mad, and my love, he's fleet,
And a wild young wood-thing bore him!
The ways are fair to his roaming feet,
And the skies are sunlit for him.
As sharply sweet to my heart he seems
As the fragrance of acacia.
My own dear love, he is all my dreams--
And I wish he were in Asia.

My love runs by like a day in June,
And he makes no friends of sorrows.
He'll tread his galloping rigadoon
In the pathway of the morrows.
He'll live his days where the sunbeams start,
Nor could storm or wind uproot him.
My own dear love, he is all my heart--
And I wish somebody'd shoot him.

Sleep, pretty lady, the night is enfolding you;
Drift, and so lightly, on crystalline streams.
Wrapped in its perfumes, the darkness is holding you;
Starlight bespangles the way of your dreams.
Chorus the nightingales, wistfully amorous;
Blessedly quiet, the blare of the day.
All the sweet hours may your visions be glamorous--
Sleep, pretty lady, as long as you may.

Sleep, pretty lady, the night shall be still for you;
Silvered and silent, it watches you rest.
Each little breeze, in its eagerness, will for you
Murmur the melodies ancient and blest.
So in the midnight does happiness capture us;
Morning is dim with another day's tears.
Give yourself sweetly to images rapturous--
Sleep, pretty lady, a couple of years.

Sleep, pretty lady, the world awaits day with you;
Girlish and golden, the slender young moon.
Grant the fond darkness its mystical way with you;
Morning returns to us ever too soon.
Roses unfold, in their loveliness, all for you;
Blossom the lilies for hope of your glance.
When you're awake, all the men go and fall for you--
Sleep, pretty lady, and give me a chance.

They hail you as their morning star
Because you are the way you are.
If you return the sentiment,
They'll try to make you different;
And once they have you, safe and sound,
They want to change you all around.
Your moods and ways they put a curse on;
They'd make of you another person.
They cannot let you go your gait;
They influence and educate.
They'd alter all that they admired.
They make me sick, they make me tired.

The stars are soft as flowers, and as near;
  The hills are webs of shadow, slowly spun;
No separate leaf or single blade is here--
  All blend to one.

No moonbeam cuts the air; a sapphire light
  Rolls lazily. and slips again to rest.
There is no edged thing in all this night,
  Save in my breast.

Let another cross his way--
  She's the one will do the weeping!
Little need I fear he'll stray
  Since I have his heart in keeping--

Let another hail him dear--
  Little chance that he'll forget me!
Only need I curse and fear
  Her he loved before he met me.

Then let them point my every tear,
  And let them mock and moan;
Another week, another year,
  And I'll be with my own

Who slumber now by night and day
  In fields of level brown;
Whose hearts within their ******* were clay
  Before they laid them down.

They say of me, and so they should,
It's doubtful if I come to good.
I see acquaintances and friends
Accumulating dividends,
And making enviable names
In science, art, and parlor games.
But I, despite expert advice,
Keep doing things I think are nice,
And though to good I never come--
Inseparable my nose and thumb!

Men seldom make passes
At girls who wear glasses.

So let me have the rouge again,
  And comb my hair the curly way.
The poor young men, the dear young men
  They'll all be here by noon today.

And I shall wear the blue, I think--
  They beg to touch its rippled lace;
Or do they love me best in pink,
  So sweetly flattering the face?

And are you sure my eyes are bright,
  And is it true my cheek is clear?
Young what's-his-name stayed half the night;
  He vows to cut his throat, poor dear!

So bring my scarlet slippers, then,
  And fetch the powder-puff to me.
The dear young men, the poor young men--
  They think I'm only seventy!

Always I knew that it could not last
  (Gathering clouds, and the snowflakes flying),
Now it is part of the golden past
  (Darkening skies, and the night-wind sighing);
It is but cowardice to pretend.
  Cover with ashes our love's cold crater--
Always I've known that it had to end
  Sooner or later.

Always I knew it would come like this
  (Pattering rain, and the grasses springing),
Sweeter to you is a new love's kiss
  (Flickering sunshine, and young birds singing).
Gone are the raptures that once we knew,
  Now you are finding a new joy greater--
Well, I'll be doing the same thing, too,
  Sooner or later.

Little white love, your way you've taken;
Now I am left alone, alone.
Little white love, my heart's forsaken.
(Whom shall I get by telephone?)
Well do I know there's no returning;
Once you go out, it's done, it's done.
All of my days are gray with yearning.
(Nevertheless, a girl needs fun.)

Little white love, perplexed and weary,
Sadly your banner fluttered down.
Sullen the days, and dreary, dreary.
(Which of the boys is still in town?)
Radiant and sure, you came a-flying;
Puzzled, you left on lagging feet.
Slow in my breast, my heart is dying.
(Nevertheless, a girl must eat.)

Little white love, I hailed you gladly;
Now I must wave you out of sight.
Ah, but you used me badly, badly.
(Who'd like to take me out tonight?)
All of the blundering words I've spoken,
Little white love, forgive, forgive.
Once you went out, my heart fell, broken.
(Nevertheless, a girl must live.)

If I don't drive around the park,
I'm pretty sure to make my mark.
If I'm in bed each night by ten,
I may get back my looks again,
If I abstain from fun and such,
I'll probably amount to much,
But I shall stay the way I am,
Because I do not give a ****.

(J. H., 1905-1930)

If she had been beautiful, even,
Or wiser than women about her,
Or had moved with a certain defiance;
If she had had sons at her sides,
And she with her hands on their shoulders,
Sons, to make troubled the Gods--
But where was there wonder in her?
What had she, better or eviler,
Whose days were a pattering of peas
From the pod to the bowl in her lap?

That the pine tree is blasted by lightning,
And the bowlder split raw from the mountain,
And the river dried short in its rushing--
That I can know, and be humble.
But that They who have trodden the stars
Should turn from Their echoing highway
To trample a daisy, unnoticed
In a meadow of small, open flowers--
Where is Their triumph in that?
Where is Their pride, and Their vengeance?

Why is it, when I am in Rome,
I'd give an eye to be at home,
But when on native earth I be,
My soul is sick for Italy?

And why with you, my love, my lord,
Am I spectacularly bored,
Yet do you up and leave me--then
I scream to have you back again?

"Then we will have tonight!" we said.
  "Tomorrow--may we not be dead?"
The morrow touched our eyes, and found
  Us walking firm above the ground,
Our pulses quick, our blood alight.
  Tomorrow's gone--we'll have tonight!

A single flow'r he sent me, since we met.
All tenderly his messenger he chose;
Deep-hearted, pure, with scented dew still wet --
One perfect rose.

I knew the language of the floweret;
"My fragile leaves," it said, "his heart enclose."
Love long has taken for his amulet
One perfect rose.
Why is it no one ever sent me yet
One perfect limousine, do you suppose?
Ah no, it's always just my luck to get
One perfect rose.

The bird that feeds from off my palm
Is sleek, affectionate, and calm,
But double, to me, is worth the thrush
A-flickering in the elder-bush.

If, with the literate, I am
Impelled to try an epigram,
I never seek to take the credit;
We all assume that Oscar said it.

Oh, ponder, friend, the porcupine;
  Refresh your recollection,
And sit a moment, to define
  His means of self-protection.

How truly fortified is he!
  Where is the beast his double
In forethought of emergency
  And readiness for trouble?

Recall his figure, and his shade--
  How deftly planned and clearly
For slithering through the dappled glade
  Unseen, or pretty nearly.

Yet should an alien eye discern
  His presence in the woodland,
How little has he left to learn
  Of self-defense! My good land!

For he can run, as swift as sound,
  To where his goose may hang high--
Or ****** his head against the ground
  And tunnel half to Shanghai;

Or he can climb the dizziest bough--
  Unhesitant, mechanic--
And, resting, dash from off his brow
  The bitter beads of panic;

Or should pursuers press him hot,
  One scarcely needs to mention
His quick and cruel barbs, that got
  Shakespearean attention;

Or driven to his final ditch,
  To his extremest thicket,
He'll fight with claws and molars (which
  Is not considered cricket).

How amply armored, he, to fend
  The fear of chase that haunts him!
How well prepared our little friend!--
  And who the devil wants him?

Whose love is given over-well
Shall look on Helen's face in hell,
Whilst they whose love is thin and wise
May view John Knox in paradise.

I shall tread, another year,
  Ways I walked with Grief,
Past the dry, ungarnered ear
  And the brittle leaf.

I shall stand, a year apart,
  Wondering, and shy,
Thinking, "Here she broke her heart;
Here she pled to die."

I shall hear the pheasants call,
  And the raucous geese;
Down these ways, another Fall,
  I shall walk with Peace.

But the pretty path I trod
  Hand-in-hand with Love--
Underfoot, the nascent sod,
  Brave young boughs above,

And the stripes of ribbon grass
  By the curling way--
I shall never dare to pass
  To my dying day.

Leave me to my lonely pillow.
Go, and take your silly posies
Who has vowed to wear the willow
Looks a fool, tricked out in roses.

Who are you, my lad, to ease me?
Leave your pretty words unspoken.
Tinkling echoes little please me,
Now my heart is freshly broken.

Over young are you to guide me,
And your blood is slow and sleeping.
If you must, then sit beside me....
Tell me, why have I been weeping?

In the pathway of the sun,
  In the footsteps of the breeze,
Where the world and sky are one,
  He shall ride the silver seas,
    He shall cut the glittering wave.
I shall sit at home, and rock;
Rise, to heed a neighbor's knock;
Brew my tea, and snip my thread;
Bleach the linen for my bed.
    They will call him brave.

If I should labor through daylight and dark,
   Consecrate, valorous, serious, true,
Then on the world I may blazon my mark;
   And what if I don't, and what if I do?

Secrets, you said, would hold us two apart;
You'd have me know of you your least transgression,
And so the intimate places of your heart,
Kneeling, you bared to me, as in confession.
Softly you told of loves that went before--
Of clinging arms, of kisses gladly given;
Luxuriously clean of heart once more,
You rose up, then, and stood before me, shriven.

When this, my day of happiness, is through,
And love, that bloomed so fair, turns brown and brittle,
There is a thing that I shall ask of you--
I, who have given so much, and asked so little.
Some day, when there's another in my stead,
Again you'll feel the need of absolution,
And you will go to her, and bow your head,
And offer her your past, as contribution.

When with your list of loves you overcome her,
For Heaven's sake, keep this one secret from her!