That you can desecrate so grand a shrine By the false gods you place there! _you_, who know The lore of love so perfectly, who trace The delicate labyrinth of a woman’s heart, With a sure clew, so true, so fine, so rare, Some angel Ariadne gave it you! If I knew how to stoop, I’d tell you more: I’d win your love, even now, by a slight word; But that I’ll say in heaven. Till we meet there, Unto God’s love I leave you. . . . . You will glance round among the crowd hereafter, And dream my woman’s heart must sure betray me. Not so: I have not schooled, for weary years, Eye, lip, and cheek, and voice, to be shamed now By your bold gaze. Ah! were I _not_ secure In my pride’s sanctuary, this revelation Were an act, Heaven, nor you, could ever pardon; And still less _I_. Nor would I now forego, Even for your love, the deep, divine delight Of this most pure and unsuspected passion, That none have guessed, or will, while I have life. You smile, perchance. Beware! I shall shame _you_, If with suspicion’s plummet you dare sound The unfathomed deeps of feeling in this heart. It shall bring up, ’stead of that love it seeks, A scorn you look not for. Ay, I would die A martyr’s death, sir, rather than betray To you by faintest flatter of a pulse— By lightest change of cheek or eyelid’s fall— That _I_ am she who loves, adores, and flies you! . . . . . . . . . Ask why the holy starlight, or the blush Of summer blossoms, or the balm that floats From yonder lily like an angel’s breath, Is lavished on such men! God gives them all For some high end; and thus, the seeming waste Of her rich soul—its starlight purity, Its every feeling delicate as a flower, Its tender trust, its generous confidence, Its wondering disdain of littleness— These, by the coarser sense of those around her Uncomprehended, may not all be vain, But win them—they unwitting of the spell— By ties unfelt, to nobler, loftier life. And they dare blame her! they whose every thought, Look, utterance, act, has more of evil in ’t, Than e’er she dreamed of, or could understand! And she must blush before them, with a heart Whose lightest throb is worth their all of life!— They boast their charity: oh, idle boast! They give the poor, forsooth, food, fuel, shelter! Faint, chilled and worn, her soul implored a pittance— Her _soul asked alms_ of theirs—and was denied! It was not much it came a-begging for: A simple boon, only a gentle thought, A kindly judgment of such deeds of hers As passed their understanding, but to her Seemed natural as the blooming of a flower: For God taught her—but they had learned of men The meagre doling of their measured love, A selfish, sensual love, most unlike hers.