DAWN OF WOMANHOOD
Thus will I have the woman of my dream.
Strong must she be and gentle, like a star
Her soul burn whitely; nor its arrowy beam
May any cloud of superstition mar:
True to the earth she is, patient and calm.
Her tranquil eyes shall penetrate afar
Through centuries, and her maternal arm
Enfold the generations yet unborn;
Nor she, by passing glamor nor alarm,
Will from the steadfast way of life be drawn.
Gray-eyed and fearless, I behold her gaze
Outward into the furnace of the dawn.
Sacred shall be the purport of her days,
Yet human; and the passion of the earth
Shall be for her adornment and her praise.
She is most often joyous, with a mirth
That rings true-tempered holy womanhood,
She cannot fear the agonies of birth,
Nor sit in pallid lethargy and brood
Upon the coming seasons of her pain:
By her the mystery is understood
Of harvest, and fulfilment in the grain.
Yea, she is wont to labor in the field,
Delights to heap, at sunset, on the wain
Festoons and coronals of the golden yield.
A triumph is the labor of her soul,
Sublime along eternity revealed.
Lo, everlastingly in her control,
Under the even measure of her breath,
Like crested waves the onward centuries roll.
Nor to far heaven her spirit wandereth,
Nor lifteth she her voice in barren prayer,
Nor trembleth at appearances of death.
She, godlike in her womanhood, will fare
Calm-visaged and heroic to the end.
The homestead is her most especial care;
She loves the sacred hearth: she will defend
Her gods from desecration of the vile.
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 passion 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 passes down the future like a gleam,—
Thus have I made the woman of my dream.
Harold Monro [1879-1932]