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 arbour 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, The weary watching for the pale-eyed dawn Which only brought fresh grieving: then I grew Fiercer, and cursed from out my inmost heart The Fates which marked me an Athenian maid. Then faded that vain fury; hope died out; A huge despair was stealing on my soul, A sort of fierce acceptance of my fate,-- He wished a household vessel--well ’twas good, For he should have it! He should have no more The yearning treasure of a woman’s love, But just the baser treasure which he sought. I called my maidens, ordered out the loom, And spun unceasing from the morn till eve; Watching all keenly over warp and woof, Weighing the white wool with a jealous hand. I spun until, methinks, I spun away The soul from out my body, the high thoughts From out my spirit; till at last I grew As ye have known me,--eye exact to mark