She knew
She was not wise; was conscious in herself
Of eager impulses that would have wrecked
Her whole heart’s happiness a thousand times,
Had not some Power from without herself
Shut down the sudden gates, and with its stern
“Thou shalt not!” left her, stunned perhaps, but saved.
For she was but a woman, and her will
Hung poised upon her heart, and swayed with each
Quick-passing impulse, like a humming-bird
Lit tremulous on some rich-tinted flower.
Rich-tinted, truly; no forget-me-not,
Placid with blue serenity; nor yet
That regal flower, stately in its calm
Fair dignity, that hoards its loveliness
From common gaze, with instinct to discern
The presence of unworthy worshippers.
Not till the twilight shadows have shut out
The common crowd that would have rifled all
Its queenly beauty,—does it condescend
For him who with a patient reverence
Has waited, to unfold with lovely grace
The royal petals; and it droops and dies
Before the garish day has ushered in
Again the curious crowd.
This woman’s soul
Was not so snowy in its purity,
And not so keen in its fine instincts; nay,
But tinted with all splendid hues, intense
With high enthusiasms, and yet indeed
Not passionate, but pure as lilies are.
Transparent flames are surely just as pure
As icicles; and something of the rich
And brilliant glow of her own nature fell
On everyone about her, till they stood
Transfigured in her eyes, with glory caught
From her own loveliness. She was not keen
To judge of human nature; she believed
All men were noble; and a thousand times
The poor heart would have offered up its all
On some unworthy shrine, had not the fates
Kindly removed the shrine. How could she help
Believe that God had stooped from highest heaven,
To save her from herself?