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 insistence on 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