Volume II Part 22 (2/2)

From my brain the soul-wings budded, waved a flame about my body, Whence conventions coiled to ashes. I felt self-drawn out, as man, From amalgamate false natures, and I saw the skies grow ruddy With the deepening feet of angels, and I knew what spirits can.

LXIX.

I was mad, inspired--say either! (anguish worketh inspiration) Was a man or beast--perhaps so, for the tiger roars when speared; And I walked on, step by step along the level of my pa.s.sion-- Oh my soul! and pa.s.sed the doorway to her face, and never feared.

LXX.

_He_ had left her, peradventure, when my footstep proved my coming, But for _her_--she half arose, then sate, grew scarlet and grew pale.

Oh, she trembled! 't is so always with a worldly man or woman In the presence of true spirits; what else _can_ they do but quail?

LXXI.

Oh, she fluttered like a tame bird, in among its forest-brothers Far too strong for it; then drooping, bowed her face upon her hands; And I spake out wildly, fiercely, brutal truths of her and others: _I_, she planted in the desert, swathed her, windlike, with my sands.

LXXII.

I plucked up her social fictions, b.l.o.o.d.y-rooted though leaf-verdant, Trod them down with words of shaming,--all the purple and the gold.

All the ”landed stakes” and lords.h.i.+ps, all that spirits pure and ardent Are cast out of love and honour because chancing not to hold.

LXXIII.

”For myself I do not argue,” said I, ”though I love you, madam, But for better souls that nearer to the height of yours have trod: And this age shows, to my thinking, still more infidels to Adam Than directly, by profession, simple infidels to G.o.d.

LXXIV.

”Yet, O G.o.d,” I said, ”O grave,” I said, ”O mother's heart and bosom, With whom first and last are equal, saint and corpse and little child!

We are fools to your deductions, in these figments of heart-closing; We are traitors to your causes, in these sympathies defiled.

LXXV.

”Learn more reverence, madam, not for rank or wealth--_that_ needs no learning: _That_ comes quickly, quick as sin does, ay, and culminates to sin; But for Adam's seed, MAN! Trust me, 't is a clay above your scorning, With G.o.d's image stamped upon it, and G.o.d's kindling breath within.

LXXVI.

”What right have you, madam, gazing in your palace mirror daily, Getting so by heart your beauty which all others must adore, While you draw the golden ringlets down your fingers, to vow gaily You will wed no man that's only good to G.o.d, and nothing more?

LXXVII.

”Why, what right have you, made fair by that same G.o.d, the sweetest woman Of all women He has fas.h.i.+oned, with your lovely spirit-face Which would seem too near to vanish if its smile were not so human, And your voice of holy sweetness, turning common words to grace,--

LXXVIII.

”What right _can_ you have, G.o.d's other works to scorn, despise, revile them In the gross, as mere men, broadly--not as _n.o.ble_ men, forsooth,-- As mere Pariahs of the outer world, forbidden to a.s.soil them In the hope of living, dying, near that sweetness of your mouth?

LXXIX.

”Have you any answer, madam? If my spirit were less earthly, If its instrument were gifted with a better silver string, I would kneel down where I stand, and say--Behold me! I am worthy Of thy loving, for I love thee. I am worthy as a king.

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