Of love?—Pray—what is love?
How should a woman love?—Although we hate
Each other well, we need not try to prove
Our hate by silence—for there is a fate
Against it in us women; speak we must,
And ever shall until we’re turned to dust,
Nay—I’m not sure but even then we talk
From grave to grave under the churchyard-walk—
Whose bones last longest—whose the finest shroud—
And—is there not a most unseemly crowd
In pauper’s corner yonder?
—You are shocked?
You do not see, then, that I only mocked
At my own fears—as those poor French lads sang
Their gayest songs at the red barricade,
Clear on the air their boyish voices rang
In chorus, even while the bayonet made
An end of them.—He may be suffering now—
He may be calling—
There! I’ve made a vow
To keep on talking. So, then—tell me, pray,
How should a woman love?
The Maiden.
I can but say
How I do love.
The Lady.
And how?
The Maiden.
With faith and prayer.
The Lady.
I, too; my faith is absolute. We share
That good in common. I believe his love
Is great as mine, and mine—oh, could I prove
My love by dying for him, far too small
The test; I’d give my love, my soul, my all,
In life, in death, in immortality,
Content in hell itself (if there be hells—
Which much I doubt)—content, so I could be
With him!