The still morn stays expectant, and my soul,
All weighted with a passive wonderment,
Waiteth and watcheth, waiteth for the dawn.
Come hither, maids; too soundly have ye slept.

That should have watched me; nay, I would not chide-
Oft have I chidden, yet I would not chide

In this last hour-now all should be at peace.

I have been dreaming in a troubled sleep

Of weary days I thought not to recall ;

Of stormy days, whose storms are hushed long since ;

Of gladsome days, of sunny days; alas!

In dreaming, all their sunshine seem'd so sad,

As though the current of the dark To-Be

Had flow'd, prophetic, through the happy hours.
And yet, full well, I know it was not thus ;

I mind me sweetly of the summer days,
When, leaning from the lattice, I have caught
The fair, far glimpses of a shining sea;

And nearer, of tall ships which thronged the bay,
And stood out blackly from a tender sky,

All flecked with sulphur, azure, and bright gold;
And in the still, clear air have heard the hum
Of distant voices; and methinks there rose
No darker fount to mar or stain the joy
Which sprang ecstatic in my maiden breast,

Than just those vague desires, those hopes and fears,
Those eager longings, strong, though undefined,
Whose very sadness makes them seem so sweet.
What cared I for the merry mockeries
Of other maidens sitting at the loom?
Or for sharp voices, bidding me return
To: maiden labor? Were we not apart,

I and my high thoughts, and my golden dreams,
My soul which yearned for knowledge, for a tongue
That should proclaim the stately mysteries
Of this fair world, and of the holy gods?
Then followed days of sadness as I grew
To learn my woman-mind had gone astray.
And I was sinning in those very thoughts-

For maidens, mark, such are not woman's thoughts-
(And yet, 'tis strange, the gods who fashion us
Have given us such promptings).

Fled the years,
Till seventeen had found me tall and strong,
And fairer, runs it, than Athenian maids
Are wont to seem; I had not learnt it well-

My lesson of dumb patience-and I stood
At Life's great threshold with a beating heart,
And soul resolved to conquer and attain.
Once, walking 'thwart the crowded market place,
With other maidens, bearing in thetwigs,
White doves for Aphrodite's sacrifice,

I saw him, all ungainly and uncouth,
Yet many gathered round to hear his words,
Tall youths and stranger-maidens-Sokrates-
I saw his face and marked it, half with awe,
Half with a quick repulsion at the shape.
The richest gem lies hidden farthest down,
And is the dearer for the weary search;

We grasp the shining shells which strew the shore,
Yet swift we fling them from us; but the gem
We keep for aye and cherish. So a soul,
Found after weary searching in the flesh
Which half repelled our senses, is more dear,
For that same seeking, than the sunny mind
Which lavish Nature marks with thousand hints
Upon a brow of beauty. We are prone
To overweigh such subtle hints, then deem,
In after disappointment, we are fooled..
And when, at length, my father told me all,
That I should wed me with great Sokrates,
I. foolish, wept to see at once cast down
The maiden image of a future love,
Where perfect body matched the perfect soul.
But slowly, softly did I cease to weep;
Slowly I 'gan to mark the magic flash
Leap to the eyes, to watch the sudden smile
Break round the mouth, and linger in the eyes:
To listen for the voice's lightest tone-

Great voice, whose cunning modulations seemed
Like to the notes of some sweet instrument.
So did I reach and strain, until at last

I caught the soul athwart the grosser flesh.
Again of thee, sweet Hope, my spirit dreamed!
I, guided by his wisdom and his love,

Led by his words, and counselled by his care,
Should lift the shrouding veil from things which be
And at the flowing fountain of his soul

Refresh my thirsting spirit...

And indeed,

In those long days which followed that strange day
When rites and song, and sacrifice and flow'rs.

Proclaimed that we were wedded, did I learn,
In sooth, a-many lessons; bitter ones
Which sorrow taught me, and not love inspired,
Which deeper knowledge of my kind impressed
With dark insistance or reluctant brain;
But that great wisdom, deeper, which dispels
Narrowed conclusions of a half-grown mind,
And sees athwart the littleness of life

Nature's divineness, and her harmony,
Was never poor Xantippe's...

I would pause,

And would recall no more, no more of life,
Than just the incomplete, imperfect dream
Of early summers, with their light and shade,
Their blossom-hopes, whose fruit was never ripe ;
But something strong within me, some sad chord
Which loudly echoes to the later life,
Me to unfold the after-misery

Urges with plaintive wailing in my heart.

Yet, maidens, mark; I would not that ye thought
I blame my lord departed, for he meant
No evil, so I take it, to his wife.

'Twas only that the high philosopher,

Pregnant with noble theories and great thoughts,
Deigned not to stoop to touch so slight a thing
As the fine fabric of a woman's brain-
So subtle as a passionate woman's soul.
I think if he had stooped a little, and cared,
I might have risen nearer to his height,
And not lain shattered, neither fit for use
As goodly household vessel, nor for that
Far finer thing which I had hoped to be.
Death, holding high his retrospective lamp,
Shows me those first, far years of wedded life,
Ere I had learnt to grasp the barren shape
Of what the fates had destined for my life.
Then, as all youthful spirits are, was I
Wholly incredulous that Nature meant
So little, who had promised me so much.
At first I fought my fate with gentle words,
With high endeavors after greater things-
Striving to win the soul of Sokrates,

Like some slight bird, who sings her burning love
To human master, till at length she finds

Her tender language wholly misconceived,

And that same hand whose kind caress she sought,

With fingers flippant flings the careless corn....
I do remember how, one summer's eve,
He, seated in an arbor's leafy shade,
Had bade me bring fresh wine-skins.

...

As I stood

Ling'ring upon the threshold, half concealed
By tender foliage; and my spirit light
With draughts of sunny weather, did I mark
An instant, the gay group before mine eyes.
Deepest in shade, and facing where I stood,
Sat Plato, with his calm face and low brows,
Which met above the narrow Grecian eyes;
The pale, thin lips just parted to the smile,
Which dimpled that smooth olive of his cheek.
His head a little bent, sat Sokrates,
With one swart finger raised admonishing,
And on the air were borne his changing tones.
Low lounging at his feet, one fair arm thrown
Around his knee (the other, high in air
Brandish'd a brazen amphor, which yet rained
Bright drops of ruby on the golden locks
And temples with their fillets of the vine),
Lay Alkibiades the beautiful.

And thus, with solemn tone, spake Sokrates :
"This fair Aspasia, which our Pericles

Hath brought from realms afar, and set on high
In our Athenian city, hath a mind,

I doubt not, of a strength beyond her race;
And makes employ of it beyond the way
Of women nobly gifted: woman's frail-
Her body rarely stands the test of soul;
She grows intoxicate with knowledge; throws
The laws of custom, order, 'neath her feet,
Feasting at life's great banquet with wide throat."
Then sudden, stepping from my leafy screen,
Holding the swelling wine-skin o'er my head,

With breast that heaved, and eyes and cheeks aflame,
Lit by a fury and a thought, I spake :

"By all great powers around us! can it be
That we poor women are empirical?

That gods who fashioned us did strive to make
Beings too fine, too subtly delicate,

With sense that thrilled response to ev'ry touch
Of nature's, and their task is not complete ?
That they have sent their half-completed work
To bleed and quiver, here upon the earth ?-

To bleed and quiver, and to weep and weep,
To beat its soul against the marble walls

Of men's cold hearts, and then at last to sin !''
I ceased, the first hot passion stayed and stemmed
And frighted by the silence: I could see,
Framed by the arbor foliage, which the sun
In setting softly gilded with rich gold,
Those upturned faces, and those placid limbs ;
Saw Plato's narrow eyes and niggard mouth,
Which half did smile and half did criticise,
One hand held up, the shapely fingers framed
To gesture of entreaty-" Hush, I pray,
Do not disturb her; let us hear the rest-
Follow her mood, for here's another phase
Of your black-browed Xantippe.

Then I saw

Young Alkibiades, with laughing lips

And half-shut eyes, contemptuous, shrugging up
Soft, snowy shoulders, till he brought the gold
Of flowing ringlets round about his breasts.
But Sokrates, all slow and solemnly,

Raised, calm, his face to mine, and sudden spake :
"I thank thee for the wisdom which thy lips
Have thus let fall among us: prythee tell
From what high source, from what philosophies
Didst cull the sapient notion of thy words?"
Then stood I straight and silent for a breath;

Dumb, crushed with all that weight of cold contempt;
But swiftly in my bosom there uprose

A sudden flame, a merciful fury sent

To save me; with both angry hands I flung
The skin upon the marble, where it lay

Spouting red rills and fountains on the white;
Then, all unheeding faces, voices, eyes,

I fled across the threshold, hair unbound-
White garment stained to redness-beating heart
Flooded with all the flowing tide of hopes
Which once had gushed out golden, now sent back
Swift to their sources, never more to rise.
I think I could have borne the weary life,
The narrow life within the narrow walls,
If he had loved me; but he kept his love
For this Athenian city and her sons;
And, haply, for some stranger-woman, bold
With freedom, thought, and glib philosophy.

Ah me! the long, long weeping through the nights,