If you were strong where I counted, And weak where yourself were at stake, You would have my strength for your giving, You would gain and not lose for my sake. If your heart overruled your head, Or your head were lord of your heart, Or the two were lovingly balanced, I think we never should part. If you came to me spite of yourself, And staid not away through design, These days of loving and living Were sweet as Olympian wine. If you could weep with another, And tears for yourself controlled, You could waken and hold to a pity You waken, but do not hold. If your lips were as fain to speak As your face is fashioned to hide-- You would know that to lay up treasure A woman's heart must confide. If your bosom were something richer, Or your hands more fragile and thin, You would call what the world calls evil, Or sin and be glad of the sin. If your soul were aflame with love, Or your head were devoted to truth, You never would toss on your pillow Bewildered 'twixt rapture and ruth. If you were the you of my dreams, And the you of my dreams were mine, These days, half sweet and half bitter, Would taste like Olympian wine. Oh, subtle and mystic Egyptians! Who chiseled the Sphinx in the East, With head and the breasts of a woman, And body and claws of a beast. And gave her a marvellous riddle That the eyeless should read as he ran: What crawls and runs and is baffled By woman, the sphinx--but a man? Many look in her face and are conquered, Where one all her heart has explored; A thousand have made her their sovereign, But one is her sovereign and lord. For him she leaps from her standard And fawns at his feet in the sand, Who sees that himself is her riddle, And she but the work of his hand. PORTRAIT OF A WOMAN The pathos in your face is like a peace, It is like resignation or a grace Which smiles at the surcease Of hope. But there is in your face The shadow of pain, and there is a trace Of memory of pain. I look at you again and again, And hide my looks lest your quick eye perceives My search for your despair. I look at your pale hands--I look at your hair; And I watch you use your hands, I watch the flare Of thought in your eyes like light that interweaves A flutter of color running under leaves-- Such anguished dreams in your eyes! And I listen to you speak Words like crystals breaking with a tinkle, Or a star's twinkle. Sometimes as we talk you rise And leave the room, and then I rub a streak Of a tear from my cheek. You tell me such magical things Of pictures, books, romance And of your life in France In the varied music of exquisite words, And in a voice that sings.