More human, more divine than we—
    In truth, half human, half divine—
Is woman, when good stars agree
    To temper with their beams benign
The hour of her nativity.

The fairest flower the green earth bears,
    Bright with the dew and light of heaven,
Is, of the double life she wears,
    The type, in grace and glory given
By soil and sun in equal shares.

True sister of the Son of Man:
    True sister of the Son of God:
What marvel that she leads the van
    Of those who in the path he trod,
Still bear the cross and wear the ban?

If God be in the sky and sea,
    And live in light and ride the storm,
Then God is God, although He be
    Enshrined within a woman's form;
And claims glad reverence from me.

So, as I worship Him in Christ,
    And in the Forms of Earth and Air,
I worship Him imparadised,
    And throned within her bosom fair
Whom vanity hath not enticed.

O! woman—mother! Woman—wife!—
    The sweetest names that language knows!
Thy breast, with holy motives rife,
    With holiest affection glows,
Thou queen, thou angel of my life!

Noble and fine in his degree
    Is the best man my heart receives;
And this my heart's supremest plea
    For him: he feels, acts, lives, believes,
And seems, and is, the likest thee.

O men! O brothers! Well I know
    That with her nature in our souls
Is born the elemental woe—
    The brutal impulse that controls,
And drives, or drags, the godlike low.

Ambition, appetite and pride—
    These throng and thrall the hearts of men
These plat the thorns, and pierce the side
    Of Him, who, in our souls again,
Is spit upon, and crucified.

The greed for gain, the thirst for power,
    The lust that blackens while it burns:
Ah! these the whitest souls deflour!
    And one, or all of these by turns,
Rob man of his divinest dower!

Yet man, who shivers like a straw
    Before Temptation's lightest breeze,
Assumes the master—gives the law
    To her who, on her bended knees,
Resists the black-winged thunder-flaw!

To him who deems her weak and vain,
    And boasts his own exceeding might,
She clings through darkest fortune fain;
    Still loyal though the ruffian smite;
Still true, though crime his hands distain!

And is this weakness? Is it not
    The strength of God, that loves and bears
Though He be slighted or forgot
    In damning crimes, or driving cares,
And closest clings in darkest lot?

Not many friends my life has made;
    Few have I loved, and few are they
Who in my hand their hearts have laid;
    And these were women. I am gray,
But never have I been betrayed.

These words—this tribute—for the sake
    Of truth to God and womankind!
These—that my heart may cease to ache
    With love and gratitude confined,
And burning from my lips to break!

These—to that sisterhood of grace
    That numbers in its sacred list
My mother, risen to her place;
    My wife, but yester-morning kissed,
And folded in Love's last embrace!

This tribute of a love profound
    As ever moved the heart of man,
To those to whom my life is bound,
    To her in whom my life began,
And her whose love my life hath crowned!

Immortal Love! Thou still hast wings
    To lift me to those radiant fields,
Where Music waits with trembling strings,
    And Verse her happy numbers yields,
And all the soul within me sings.

So from the lovely Pagan dream
    I call no more the Tuneful Nine;
For Woman is my Muse Supreme;
    And she with fire and flight divine,
Shall light and lead me to my theme.