Fierce, like a wounded tigress, she can rend

Whatever may have entered to defile.

I see her in the evening by the fire, And in her eyes, illumined from the pile

Of blazing logs, a motherly desire Glows like the moulded pa.s.sion of a rose; Beautiful is her presence in the bower:

Her spirit is the spirit of repose.

Mankind shall hold her motherhood in awe: Woman is she indeed, and not of those

That he with sacramental gold must draw Discreetly to his chamber in the night, Or bind to him with fetters of the law.

He holds her by a spiritual right.

With diamond and with pearl he need not sue; Nor will she deck herself for his delight:

Beauty is the adornment of the true.

She shall possess for ornament and gem A flower, the glowworm, or the drop of dew:

More innocently fair than all of them, It will not even shame her if she make A coronal of stars her diadem.

Though she is but a vision, I can take Courage from her. I feel her arrowy beam Already, for her spirit is awake,

And pa.s.ses down the future like a gleam,-- Thus have I made the woman of my dream.

Harold Monro [1879-1932]

THE SHEPHERDESS

She walks--the lady of my delight-- A shepherdess of sheep.

Her flocks are thoughts. She keeps them white; She guards them from the steep.

She feeds them on the fragrant height, And folds them in for sleep.

She roams maternal hills and bright, Dark valleys safe and deep.

Into that tender breast at night The chastest stars may peep.

She walks--the lady of my delight-- A shepherdess of sheep.

She holds her little thoughts in sight, Though gay they run and leap.

She is so circ.u.mspect and right; She has her soul to keep.

She walks--the lady of my delight-- A shepherdess of sheep.

Alice Meynell [1853-1922]

A PORTRAIT

Mother and maid and soldier, bearing best Her girl's lithe body under matron gray, And opening new eyes on each new day With faith concealed and courage unconfessed; Jealous to cloak a blessing in a jest, Clothe beauty carefully in disarray, And love absurdly, that no word betray The worship all her deeds make manifest:

Armored in smiles, a motley Britomart-- Her lance is high adventure, tipped with scorn; Her banner to the suns and winds unfurled, Washed white with laughter; and beneath her heart, Shrined in a garland of laborious thorn, Blooms the unchanging Rose of all the World.

Brian Hooker [1880-

THE WIFE

The little Dreams of Maidenhood-- I put them all away As tenderly as mother would The toys of yesterday, When little children grow to men Too over-wise for play.

The little dreams I put aside-- I loved them every one, And yet since moon-blown buds must hide Before the noon-day sun, I close them wistfully away And give the key to none.

O little Dreams of Maidenhood-- Lie quietly, nor care If some day in an idle mood I, searching unaware Through some closed corner of my heart, Should laugh to find you there.

Theodosia Garrison [1874-

"TRUSTY, DUSKY, VIVID, TRUE"

Trusty, dusky, vivid, true, With eyes of gold and bramble-dew, Steel true and blade straight The great Artificer made my mate.

Honor, anger, valor, fire, A love that life could never tire, Death quench, or evil stir, The mighty Master gave to her.

Teacher, tender comrade, wife, A fellow-farer true through life, Heart-whole and soul-free, The August Father gave to me.

Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]

THE SHRINE

There is a shrine whose golden gate Was opened by the Hand of G.o.d; It stands serene, inviolate, Though millions have its pavement trod; As fresh, as when the first sunrise Awoke the lark in Paradise.

'Tis compa.s.sed with the dust and toil Of common days, yet should there fall A single speck, a single soil Upon the whiteness of its wall, The angels' tears in tender rain Would make the temple theirs again.

Without, the world is tired and old, But, once within the enchanted door, The mists of time are backward rolled, And creeds and ages are no more; But all the human-hearted meet In one communion vast and sweet.

I enter--all is simply fair, Nor incense-clouds, nor carven throne; But in the fragrant morning air A gentle lady sits alone; My mother--ah! whom should I see Within, save ever only thee?

Digby Mackworth Dolben [1848-1867]