No More Learning

LXXII.

I plucked up her social fictions, bloody-rooted though leaf-verdant,
Trod them down with words of shaming,--all the purple and the gold.
All the "landed stakes" and lordships, all that spirits pure and ardent
Are cast out of love and honour because chancing not to hold.

LXXIII.

"For myself I do not argue," said I, "though I love you, madam,
But for better souls that nearer to the height of yours have trod:
And this age shows, to my thinking, still more infidels to Adam
Than directly, by profession, simple infidels to God.

LXXIV.

"Yet, O God," I said, "O grave," I said, "O mother's heart and bosom,
With whom first and last are equal, saint and corpse and little child!
We are fools to your deductions, in these figments of heart-closing;
We are traitors to your causes, in these sympathies defiled.

LXXV.

"Learn more reverence, madam, not for rank or wealth--_that_ needs no
learning:
_That_ comes quickly, quick as sin does, ay, and culminates to sin;
But for Adam's seed, MAN! Trust me, 't is a clay above your scorning,
With God's image stamped upon it, and God's kindling breath within.

LXXVI.

"What right have you, madam, gazing in your palace mirror daily,
Getting so by heart your beauty which all others must adore,
While you draw the golden ringlets down your fingers, to vow gaily
You will wed no man that's only good to God, and nothing more?

LXXVII.

"Why, what right have you, made fair by that same God, the sweetest
woman
Of all women He has fashioned, with your lovely spirit-face
Which would seem too near to vanish if its smile were not so human,
And your voice of holy sweetness, turning common words to grace,--

LXXVIII.
"What right _can_ you have, God's other works to scorn, despise, revile
them
In the gross, as mere men, broadly--not as _noble_ men, forsooth,--
As mere Pariahs of the outer world, forbidden to assoil them
In the hope of living, dying, near that sweetness of your mouth?

LXXIX.

"Have you any answer, madam? If my spirit were less earthly,
If its instrument were gifted with a better silver string,
I would kneel down where I stand, and say--Behold me! I am worthy
Of thy loving, for I love thee. I am worthy as a king.

LXXX.

"As it is--your ermined pride, I swear, shall feel this stain upon her,
That _I_, poor, weak, tost with passion, scorned by me and you again,
Love you, madam, dare to love you, to my grief and your dishonour,
To my endless desolation, and your impotent disdain! "

LXXXI.

More mad words like these--mere madness! friend, I need not write them
fuller,
For I hear my hot soul dropping on the lines in showers of tears.
Oh, a woman! friend, a woman! why, a beast had scarce been duller
Than roar bestial loud complaints against the shining of the spheres.

LXXXII.

But at last there came a pause.