Now I stand
And feel her eyes’ soft element within,
Upon, around me, melting away life
Into these few full throbbing moments.—Lo!
Her tears again—her disavowal clean
Of any thought of falseness. Lo! her words—
I might have lived beside her all these days
In perfect joy; words, blandishments and tears
Already staggering me with their old might
Of coiling fascinations; and one tear
A drop that, falling straight into my heart,
Fills it too full for speaking a long time
The ready thing of pardon and of love.
See! am I Lord here?—This fair sight of Her,
Working the whole impassioned prodigy
As ’twere of all her beauty, just to win
Me this time and, at any cost, be queen
Of this one present, as of many pasts—
Hath ever it been fairer, more complete?
Who else hath had her more and called her his
Than here I have her calling herself mine?
I would indeed he might draw near just now,
Yea, void of feigning, in some wonted way,
And feel a cold look from her plant him there
Outside the circle where this molten love
Of her whole smile is showered upon me,
And know her no more his now than mine then.
But what do I here with a thought like this?
Those men I deemed my rivals—what are they
To me now? Why I could put them to shame
And taunt them now myself for insolent
Pretenders who have never known what ’tis
To conquer love.—Ay, what compared with me
Seem all the famous lovers of great queens
Or splendid cruel mistresses, whose woes—
Deceived, betrayed, reviled—have made them shine
With some bright share of every age’s tears?
What but mere fools? weak sufferers of wrong
From creatures whom they held in their own hands?
Or passionless, or lacking any strength
To seize their fair worlds passing them so nigh
Rather than linger in some sickly trail
Of sweetness left behind and die of shame?
O all ye Messalinas of old time—
Ye Helens, Cleopatras, ye Dalilahs,
Ye Maries, ye Lucrezias, Catharines—
Fair crowned or uncrowned—courtezans alike
Who played with men a calculated game—
Your moves their heart-wounds, deaths and ruins—sure
Of your inconstancy and their soft loves,
Had I been lover in the stead of them,
Methinks the histories of you had been changed,
And some of your worst falsenesses redeemed
By flawless faithfulness to one last love.
But now I am content, I have love here;
And I thank God for love—yea, is it sweet?
Yea, is it best of all his gifts to man?
—I see her splendid smile there—feel her arms
Already coming round me!—Who but I
Can answer? Who but I have had it whole
Like this? (The Steel is singing to me now,
Still hidden in my breast—a low sweet song.)
Ah, this time there is no doubt! ’tis all true:
Her arms may fold me—fondle me, and I
May wholly yield myself to their caress
Quite sure it leaves no atom in reserve
For any other after me. And lo,
She is right worthy of a greater one
Than all the lovers that have ever loved
And, trembling, lost their women and themselves:
For splendour—such as stains for me and turns
My eyes disgusted from the vaunted white
Of many a bosom impudently bared—
Is in that bosom closely veiled, whose veils
I may undo—yea now, and with these hands;
It is my right. And then, O joy, to know
That this, so much more wonderful than those,
Shall ne’er be seen by anyone but me!
(Ah, sing on little voice!) But, as I said,
—Yes, she is worthy!—Come to me, my Sweet:
You have the greatest beauty God has made.
I think that. Let me kiss your forehead once,
Twice, thrice, and say it is diviner white,
And hallowed with a brighter radiant grace
Than Cleopatra’s was, and swear therewith
I kiss it with a passion greater far
Than Antony’s was: yea, let me write there
This thing in kisses that none can efface.
“Ah, you believe me now, dear love?” she says:
Yes: I say yes. (Sing on! ’Twas you sang: yes;
You bade me answer so. I trust you most.)
“Dear Love, let us go lie upon that bed.
I should delight to know it just the grave,
So I might keep this faith and happiness,
That yours—this mine—both safe for evermore,
So I might lie down sure that no mischance,
No doubt, no calumny, could come to change
Me—yours, you—mine, and peace for evermore.”
She says this, and she leads me by the hand.
Her head is like a lily drooping down.
—My passion! Yea I will not baulk thee now:
I need not: for I feel that what I am
Is something more than man, that conquers man.
What is it? I know not: a flame, a thought;
But cold, but calm, unalterable, pure,
As far above the fume of the base lust
That dulls and levels all men, as, perhaps,
Was that strange flame or thought that made Man first
And Woman then to bring the man to nought,
Which fate I, who indeed am not a god,
Who am not Hercules, nor Samson, no,
Nor Antony—which fate I yet will change.
Nay, passion, rather I will urge thee on;
For I shall be above thee all the time
A cold impartial watcher, hard to foil,
Attentive that thou gettest all thine own
Not tampered with—lest, in some little thing,
Thou art betrayed, or with a semblance served,
Yea, for a blind fool as thou ever wert.