The Maiden.
Is it a woman’s tongue that tells
This blasphemy? When I said faith, I meant
A faith in God.
The Lady.
And God is love! He sent
This love that fills my heart. Oh, most divine—
Oh, nearest to him of all earthly things,
A love that passeth self—a love like mine
That passeth understanding. The bird sings
Because it is the only way he knows
To praise his Maker; and a love that flows
Like mine is worship, too—a hymn that rolls
Up to the God of Love, who gave us souls
To love with. Then the hidden sacrifice;
It formed a part of worship once, and I
Do hold it now the part that deepest lies
In woman’s love, the dim sanctuary
Behind the veil, holy of holies, kept
E’en from the one she loves: all told, except
This mystic feeling which she may not know
How to express in words—the martyr’s glow
Idealized—the wish to give him joy
Through her own suffering, and so destroy
All part that self might play—to offer pure
Her love to her heart’s idol. Strange, obscure,
Sacred, but mighty, is this longing; I
Can feel though not define it. I would die
To make him happy!
The Maiden.
As his happiness
Depends on me, then can you do no less
Than yield him to me—if you love him thus.
The Lady (thinking).
“As,” said she? Heart, but this is fabulous,
This calm security of hers!
(Speaks.) Why, child,
Hast never heard of passion, and its wild,
Impetuous, unreasoning assault
On souls that know not their own depths? The fault
Not his: he was but young, he did not know
Himself. Might he not love me even though
Thou wert the best? Have pity! I appeal
To all the woman in thee. Dost thou feel
That one touch of his hand would call the blood
Out from thy heart in an o’erwhelming flood
To meet it?
The Maiden.