What, have I waked again?
I never
To see the rosy dawn, or ev'n this grey,
Dull, solemn stillness, ere the dawn has come.
The lamp burns low; low burns the lamp of life:
The still morn stays expectant, and my soul,
All weighted with a passive wonderment,
Waiteth and watcheth, waiteth for the dawn.
Come hither, maids; too soundly have ye
That should have watched me; nay,
I would not chide—Oft have I chidden, yet I would not
In this last hour;—now all should be at peace.
I have been dreaming in a troubled
Of weary days I thought not to recall;
Of stormy days, whose storms are hushed long since;
Of gladsome days, of sunny days; alas!
In dreaming, all their sunshine seem'd so sad,
As though the current of the dark
Had flow'd, prophetic, through the happy hours.
And yet, full well,
I know it was not thus;
I mind me sweetly of the summer days,
When, leaning from the lattice,
I have
The fair, far glimpses of a shining sea;
And, nearer, of tall ships which thronged the bay,
And stood out blackly from a tender
All flecked with sulphur, azure, and bright gold;
And in the still, clear air have heard the
Of distant voices; and methinks there
No darker fount to mar or stain the
Which sprang ecstatic in my maiden
Than just those vague desires, those hopes and fears,
Those eager longings, strong, though undefined,
Whose very sadness makes them seem so sweet.
What cared I for the merry
Of other maidens sitting at the loom?
Or for sharp voices, bidding me
To maiden labour?
Were we not apart,—I and my high thoughts, and my golden dreams,
My soul which yearned for knowledge, for a
That should proclaim the stately
Of this fair world, and of the holy gods?
Then followed days of sadness, as I
To learn my woman-mind had gone astray,
And I was sinning in those very thoughts—For maidens, mark, such are not woman's thoughts—(And yet, 'tis strange, the gods who fashion
Have given us such promptings). . . . Fled the years,
Till seventeen had found me tall and strong,
And fairer, runs it, than Athenian
Are wont to seem ;
I had not learnt it well—My lesson of dumb patience—and I
At Life's great threshold with a beating heart,
And soul resolved to conquer and attain. . . .
Once, walking 'thwart the crowded market place,
With other maidens, bearing in the
White doves for Aphrodite's sacrifice,
I saw him, all ungainly and uncouth,
Yet many gathered round to hear his words,
Tall youths and stranger-maidens—Sokrates—I saw his face and marked it, half with awe,
Half with a quick repulsion at the shape. . . .
The richest gem lies hidden furthest down,
And is the dearer for the weary search;
We grasp the shining shells which strew the shore,
Yet swift we fling them from us; but the
We keep for aye and cherish.
So a soul,
Found after weary searching in the
Which half repelled our senses, is more dear,
For that same seeking, than the sunny
Which lavish Nature marks with thousand
Upon a brow of beauty.
We are prone To overweigh such subtle hints, then deem,
In after disappointment, we are fooled. . .
And when, at length, my father told me all,
That I should wed me with great Sokrates,
I, foolish, wept to see at once cast
The maiden image of a future love,
Where perfect body matched the perfect soul.
But slowly, softly did I cease to weep;
Slowly I 'gan to mark the magic
Leap to the eyes, to watch the sudden
Break round the mouth, and linger in the eyes;
To listen for the voice's lightest tone—Great voice, whose cunning modulations
Like to the notes of some sweet instrument.
So did I reach and strain, until at lastI caught the soul athwart the grosser flesh.
Again of thee, sweet Hope, my spirit dreamed!
I, guided by his wisdom and his love,
Led by his words, and counselled by his care,
Should lift the shrouding veil from things which be,
And at the flowing fountain of his
Refresh my thirsting spirit. . . And indeed,
In those long days which followed that strange
When rites and song, and sacrifice and flow'rs,
Proclaimed that we were wedded, did I learn,
In sooth, a-many lessons; bitter
Which sorrow taught me, and not love inspired,
Which deeper knowledge of my kind
With dark insistence on reluctant brain;—But that great wisdom, deeper, which
Narrowed conclusions of a half-grown mind,
And sees athwart the littleness of
Nature's divineness and her harmony,
Was never poor Xantippe's. . . I would
And would recall no more, no more of life,
Than just the incomplete, imperfect
Of early summers, with their light and shade,
Their blossom-hopes, whose fruit was never ripe;
But something strong within me, some sad
Which loudly echoes to the later life,
Me to unfold the
Urges with plaintive wailing in my heart.
Yet, maidens, mark ;
I would not that ye thoughtI blame my lord departed, for he
No evil, so I take it, to his wife.'Twas only that the high philosopher,
Pregnant with noble theories and great thoughts,
Deigned not to stoop to touch so slight a
As the fine fabric of a woman's brain—So subtle as a passionate woman's soul.
I think, if he had stooped a little, and cared,
I might have risen nearer to his height,
And not lain shattered, neither fit for
As goodly household vessel, nor for
Far finer thing which I had hoped to be. . .
Death, holding high his retrospective lamp,
Shows me those first, far years of wedded life,
Ere I had learnt to grasp the barren
Of what the Fates had destined for my life.
Then, as all youthful spirits are, was
Wholly incredulous that Nature
So little, who had promised me so much.
At first I fought my fate with gentle words,
With high endeavours after greater things;
Striving to win the soul of Sokrates,
Like some slight bird, who sings her burning
To human master, till at length she
Her tender language wholly misconceived,
And that same hand whose kind caress she sought,
With fingers flippant flings the careless corn. . .
I do remember how, one summer's eve,
He, seated in an arbour's leafy shade,
Had bade me bring fresh wine-skins. . . As I
Ling'ring upon the threshold, half
By tender foliage, and my spirit
With draughts of sunny weather, did I
An instant, the gay group before mine eyes.
Deepest in shade, and facing where I stood,
Sat Plato, with his calm face and low
Which met above the narrow Grecian eyes,
The pale, thin lips just parted to the smile,
Which dimpled that smooth olive of his cheek.
His head a little bent, sat Sokrates,
With one swart finger raised admonishing,
And on the air were borne his changing tones.
Low lounging at his feet, one fair arm
Around his knee (the other, high in
Brandish'd a brazen amphor, which yet
Bright drops of ruby on the golden
And temples with their fillets of the vine),
Lay Alkibiades the beautiful.
And thus, with solemn tone, spake Sokrates:' This fair Aspasia, which our
Hath brought from realms afar, and set on
In our Athenian city, hath a mind,
I doubt not, of a strength beyond her race;
And makes employ of it, beyond the
Of women nobly gifted : woman's frail—Her body rarely stands the test of soul;
She grows intoxicate with knowledge;
The laws of custom, order, 'neath her feet,
Feasting at life's great banquet with wide throat.'Then sudden, stepping from my leafy screen,
Holding the swelling wine-skin o'er my head,
With breast that heaved, and eyes and cheeks aflame,
Lit by a fury and a thought,
I spake:' By all great powers around us ! can it
That we poor women are empirical?
That gods who fashioned us did strive to
Beings too fine, too subtly delicate,
With sense that thrilled response to ev'ry touch Of nature's and their task is not complete?
That they have sent their half-completed
To bleed and quiver here upon the earth?
To bleed and quiver, and to weep and weep,
To beat its soul against the marble
Of men's cold hearts, and then at last to sin!'I ceased, the first hot passion stayed and
And frighted by the silence:
I could see,
Framed by the arbour foliage, which the
In setting softly gilded with rich gold,
Those upturned faces, and those placid limbs;
Saw Plato's narrow eyes and niggard mouth,
Which half did smile and half did criticise,
One hand held up, the shapely fingers
To gesture of entreaty—' Hush,
I pray,
Do not disturb her; let us hear the rest;
Follow her mood, for here's another
Of your black-browed Xantippe. . .' Then I
Young Alkibiades, with laughing
And half-shut eyes, contemptuous shrugging
Soft, snowy shoulders, till he brought the
Of flowing ringlets round about his breasts.
But Sokrates, all slow and solemnly,
Raised, calm, his face to mine, and sudden spake:' I thank thee for the wisdom which thy
Have thus let fall among us : prythee
From what high source, from what
Didst cull the sapient notion of thy words?'Then stood I straight and silent for a breath,
Dumb, crushed with all that weight of cold contempt;
But swiftly in my bosom there uproseA sudden flame, a merciful fury
To save me; with both angry hands I
The skin upon the marble, where it
Spouting red rills and fountains on the white;
Then, all unheeding faces, voices, eyes,
I fled across the threshold, hair unbound—White garment stained to redness—beating
Flooded with all the flowing tide of
Which once had gushed out golden, now sent
Swift to their sources, never more to rise. . .
I think I could have borne the weary life,
The narrow life within the narrow walls,
If he had loved me; but he kept his
For this Athenian city and her sons;
And, haply, for some stranger-woman,
With freedom, thought, and glib philosophy. . .
Ah me ! the long, long weeping through the nights,
The weary watching for the pale-eyed
Which only brought fresh grieving : then I
Fiercer, and cursed from out my inmost
The Fates which marked me an Athenian maid.
Then faded that vain fury ; hope died out;
A huge despair was stealing on my soul,
A sort of fierce acceptance of my fate,—He wished a household vessel—well! 'twas good,
For he should have it!
He should have no
The yearning treasure of a woman's love,
But just the baser treasure which he sought.
I called my maidens, ordered out the loom,
And spun unceasing from the morn till eve;
Watching all keenly over warp and woof,
Weighing the white wool with a jealous hand.
I spun until, methinks,
I spun
The soul from out my body, the high
From out my spirit; till at last I
As ye have known me,—eye exact to
The texture of the spinning; ear all
For aimless talking when the moon is up,
And ye should be a-sleeping; tongue to
With quick incision, 'thwart the merry
Of idle maidens. . . Only
My hands did cease from spinning;
I have
My dreary duties, patient till the last.
The gods reward me!
Nay,
I will not
The after years of sorrow; wretched
With grimmest foes—sad Want and Poverty;—Nor yet the time of horror, when they
My husband from the threshold; nay, nor
The subtle weed had wrought its deadly work.
Alas! alas!
I was not there to
The last great moment; never any
Of her that loved him—save at least the charge,
All earthly, that her body should not starve. . .
You weep, you weep;
I would not that ye wept;
Such tears are idle; with the young, such
Soon grows to gratulation, as, 'her
Was withered by misfortune; mine shall
All nurtured by the loving,' or, 'her
Was wrecked and shattered—mine shall smoothly sail.'Enough, enough.
In vain, in vain, in vain!
The gods forgive me!
Sorely have I
In all my life.
A fairer fate
You all that stand there. . . Ha! the dawn has come;
I see a rosy glimmer—nay ! it grows dark;
Why stand ye so in silence? throw it wide,
The casement, quick; why tarry?—give me air—O fling it wide,
I say, and give me light!
