  She knew She was not wise; was conscious in herself Of eager impulses that would have wrecked Her whole heart’s happiness a thousand times, Had not some Power from without herself Shut down the sudden gates, and with its stern “Thou shalt not!” left her, stunned perhaps, but saved. For she was but a woman, and her will Hung poised upon her heart, and swayed with each Quick-passing impulse, like a humming-bird Lit tremulous on some rich-tinted flower. Rich-tinted, truly; no forget-me-not, Placid with blue serenity; nor yet That regal flower, stately in its calm Fair dignity, that hoards its loveliness From common gaze, with instinct to discern The presence of unworthy worshippers. Not till the twilight shadows have shut out The common crowd that would have rifled all Its queenly beauty,—does it condescend For him who with a patient reverence Has waited, to unfold with lovely grace The royal petals; and it droops and dies Before the garish day has ushered in Again the curious crowd. This woman’s soul Was not so snowy in its purity, And not so keen in its fine instincts; nay, But tinted with all splendid hues, intense With high enthusiasms, and yet indeed Not passionate, but pure as lilies are. Transparent flames are surely just as pure As icicles; and something of the rich And brilliant glow of her own nature fell On everyone about her, till they stood Transfigured in her eyes, with glory caught From her own loveliness. She was not keen To judge of human nature; she believed All men were noble; and a thousand times The poor heart would have offered up its all On some unworthy shrine, had not the fates Kindly removed the shrine. How could she help Believe that God had stooped from highest heaven, |
|
