Two Women, 1862; a Poem

by Constance Fenimore Woolson

The Maiden.

O Lord, I understand
Thy purpose; ’twas to try my faith. I kneel
To thank thee that mercy doth reveal
The whole to my poor heart. He loved me—me,
Me only!

Woman of the House.

Would you like to see the wound
Here in his arm?—Why, if she hasn’t swooned!

The Lady.

Take her below, and care for her, poor child!

[Exit woman, carrying the maiden in her arms.

Brain, art thou wild,
Distraught, that thou canst all things calmly hear
And answer, when my pulses reel, my heart
Stands still, and cold through every vital part
Death breathes his icy breath?
Oh, my own love!
I clasp thee in my arms, come back to me!
O ice-cold lips I kiss, ye are as dear
As ever! Come! Thy idol waits for thee,
Waits—weeps.
Dost thou not hear me there above
Where thou hast gone? Come back and take the bride
Who nestles weeping, longing, at the side
Of thy deserted body. Oh! most fair
Thy earthly tenement, the golden hair
Curls as when my poor fingers twined it last,
Thy head upon my breast. O brownèd cheek!
Can I not warm thee with mine own? Oh, speak—
Speak to me, Meredith!
Poor wounded arm,
Dear blood; here will I hold thee close and warm
Upon my heart. Dost thou not feel me now?
And now? And now? Do I not hold thee fast?
Hast thou not longed for me?
I gave my vow
To be thine own. See! I am come. My hand
I lay in thine. Oh, speak to me! Command
My every breath; full humbly I obey,
The true wife longs to feel a master’s sway,
Longs to do homage, so her idol prove
Ruler—nay, despot of her willing love.
Didst thou not hear me whisper while she spake.
“I love thee—oh, I love thee, Meredith?”
I would not that her childish grief should break
Thy peace up in thy heaven; even there
Thou longest for my love, and near the stair
Where souls come up from earth thou’rt standing now
Watching for me. O darling, from thy brow
I catch the radiance!
She is not thine,
Thou art not hers. The boyish pledge wherewith
She strives to hold thee was the radiancy
Of early dawn, which now the mighty sun
Hath swept away in fervent heat; nor thee
Nor her it binds. Her pretty youth will run
Its swift course to some other love; Fate
Ne’er lets such sweet maids pine, though they may try;
A few months lent to tearful constancy,
The next to chastened sorrow, slow decline
To resignation; then, the well-masked bait
Of making some one happy, though at cost
Of sweet self-sacrifice, which soon is lost
In that content which, if not real love,
Looks strangely like it! But why should I prove
What thou dost know already, freed from time
And finite bonds, my darling?
Love sublime,
Art thou not God? Then let him down to me
For one short moment. See! in agony
I cling to the cold body; let him touch
Me once with this dear hand; it is not much
I ask—one clasp, one word.
What! nothing? Then
I call down vengeance on this God of men
Who makes us at his will, and gives us hearts
Only to rend them in a hundred parts,
And see them quiver—bleed! I, creature, dare
To call aloud for justice; my despair
Our great far-off Creator doth arraign
Before the bar to answer for the pain
I suffer now. It is too much—too much!
O woe! woe! woe! the human soul can such
Intensity of sorrow not withstand,
But, lifting up on high its fettered hand,
Can only cry aloud in agony,
And blindly, wildly curse its God and die!
How dare you take,
You Death, my love away from me? The old,
The weak, the loveless, the forlorn, were there
In crowds, and none to miss them. But your cold
And heartless eye did mark that he was fair,
And that I loved him? From your dreadful hold
I snatch my darling, and he yet shall wake
From out your sleep by my caresses. See,
See how I love him! Ah, shall I not win
His life back with my lips, that lovingly
Do cling to his? And, though you do begin
Your icy work, these arms shall keep him warm—
Nay, more: my loving verily disarm
E’en you, O King of Terrors! You shall turn
And give him back to me; a heart shall burn
Under your ribs at last from very sight
Of my fierce, tearless grief.
—O sorry plight
Of my poor darling in this barren room,
Where only his gold curls do light the gloom!
But we will change all that. This evening, dear,
Shall be our bridal: wilt thou take me, here,
And thus?—in this array—this falling hair—
Crushed robes? And yet, believe me, I am fair
As ever.
Love, love, love! oh, speak to me!
I will not listen in my misery
If thy heart beat—
God! it is cold!
[Falls to the floor.

Enter the Surgeon.