What, have I waked again? I never thought To see the rosy dawn, or ev’n this grey, Dull, solemn stillness, ere the dawn has come. The lamp burns low; low burns the lamp of life: 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 labour? 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 the twigs 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 furthest down,