Woman

ady, although we have not met,And may not meet, beneath the sky;And whether thine are eyes of jet,Gray, or dark blue, or violet,Or hazel—Heaven knows, not I;

Whether around thy cheek of roseA maiden’s glowing locks are curled,And to some thousand kneeling beauxThy frown is cold as winter’s snows,Thy smile is worth a world;

Or whether, past youth’s joyous strife,The calm of thought is on thy brow,And thou art in thy noon of life,Loving and loved, a happy wife,And happier mother now—

I know not: but, whate’er thou art,Whoe’er thou art, were mine the spell,To call Fate’s joys or blunt his dart,There should not be one hand or heartBut served or wished thee well.

For thou art woman—with that wordLife’s dearest hopes and memories come,Truth, Beauty, Love—in her adored,And earth’s lost Paradise restoredIn the green bower of home.

What is man’s love? His vows are broke,Even while his parting kiss is warm;But woman’s love all change will mock,And, like the ivy round the oak,Cling closest in the storm.

And well the Poet at her shrineMay bend, and worship while he woos;To him she is a thing divine,The inspiration of his line,His Sweetheart and his Muse.

If to his song the echo ringsOf Fame—’tis woman’s voice he hears;If ever from his lyre’s proud stringsFlow sounds like rush of angel-wings,’Tis that she listens while he sings,With blended smiles and tears:

Smiles—tears—whose blessed and blessing power,Like sun and dew o’er summer’s tree,Alone keeps green through Time’s long hour,That frailer thing than leaf or flower,A poet’s immortality.