In what disguise Our love had hid, and wrought its miracle; Behind what semblance of indifference, Or play of courtesy, it spun the cords That bound our hearts in one, was mystery Like love itself. The swift intelligence Of interchange of perfect faith and troth, Of gift of life and person, of the thrill Of triumph in my soul and gratitude In hers, without a gesture, or a word, Was like the converse of the continents Tracking with voiceless flight the slender wire That underlay the throbbing mystery Between our souls, and made our heart-beats one. I opened wide my arms, and she, my own, Sobbed on my breast with such excess of joy, In such embrace of passionate tenderness, As heaven may yield again, but never earth. Slow in the golden twilight, toward her home, Her hand upon my arm, we loitered on, Silent at first, and then with quiet speech Broaching our plans, or tracing in review The history of our springing love, when she, Lifting her soft blue eyes to mine: "Dear Paul! There are some things, and some I will not name, That make me sad, e'en in this height of joy. In the wild lay that you have read to-night, You make too much of me. No heart of man, Though loving well and loving worthily, Can be content with any human love. No woman, though the pride and paragon Of all her sex, can take the place of God. No angel she: nor is she quite a man In power and courage,--gifts which charm her most And which, possessing most, disrobe her charms, And make her less a woman. If she stand In fair equality with man--his mate-- Each unto each the rounded complement Of their humanity, it is enough; And such equality must ever lie In their unequal gifts. This thing, at least, Is true as God: she is not more than he, And sits upon no throne. To be adored By man, she must be placed upon a throne Built by his hands, and sit an idol there, Degraded by the measure of the flight Between God's thought and man's."