  We have known Of many a man whose features were not carved By his own soul to their high nobleness, But handed down by some far ancestor. Strange, that a man a generation long Should do good deeds that mould his generous lips To noble curves, and then should die and leave His son the curves without the nobleness. We’ve known of many a woman, many a man, Whose own soul leaped in passionate high flames; But locked behind the fatal prison bars Of cold ancestral dignity of face, No glimmer of the light and warmth within Creeps to the surface. But this face of hers Is not a face like those we’ve analyzed; True to its wearer, it is justly proud With her own pride and not her ancestors. Were you to chide her gently for some fault, Or promise that whatever grand mistakes Her woman’s impulses might lead her to, You would judge all with Christian charity, Tis not impossible that she would say, “Sir, I make no mistakes; I have no faults; I thank you, but I need no charity!” Well, what of that? I would that there were more Of us, who, bidden to confess our sins, Could say Job’s litany: “May God forbid That you be justified! my righteousness Will I hold fast and will not let it go; My heart shall not reproach me while I live!” Humility’s a grace at thirty-nine, But scarce a virtue in the very young, Who bend to us from fear, not reverence. Nor truly humble is the violet That keeps its face quite upturned to the sun And would grow higher if it could; it cannot. Better for our young friend the haughtiness Of strong white lilies that refuse to bloom Near the dark earth they rose from; eagerly They push aside the lazy weeds that hide The upper air; and keeping in their breasts The fair white secret of their blossoming, Rise to the heaven they worship. Suddenly, Awed at the vast immensity of light That wraps the earth as with a garment; awed By the deep silence of that upper air, They bend their stately heads, to breathe to earth A murmured penitence for olden pride. The fair white bells they kept so jealously Lifted to heaven, now they overturn, And let the cherished fragrance of their souls Swing censer-like upon the general air. You’ll look at it again? No, I have put it back; it’s not a face I like to argue over with a friend. It is a woman’s face; and what is more, |
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