A Man's Reply

That heart were something cold, I think, That on the light of stars relied For daily fire; and cruel is The perfumed breath of flowers denied The longing, lifted human hand; And bitter to the soul, I stand And fling your woman's fancies back Beneath the woman's tender feet! A woman only knoweth love To know that it is passing sweet, To know that all her heart is glad, Or else to know that she is sad Because it failed her; and forsooth, I think she has an extra sense To love by, granted not to man: Love's measureless own recompense Consists in loving: there 's her creed. A pretty thought, in faith or deed! A feminine fair thought, but false To man forever! false as light To the born blind, as painted fruit To starving lips; or as a bright Departing sail to drowning eyes Arch not to me, in mild surprise, Those glorious calm brows of yours! Man loveth in another way! He cannot take the less without The more; he has a bitter way In loving, that you know not of; No tireless, tender, calm resolve To take Fate's meagre crumbs when dry From life's feast-tables overswept And salt them with his hidden, hot, Vain tears! Contented to be kept As cup-bearer beside a goddess' place! Contented so he see her face, Her dear, denied, sweet face, and die! O lost, my love! I tell you nay, You do not, cannot understand; Man loveth in another way! He is too strong, or is too weak: I cannot be the friend you seek! And yet, in the incertitudes Of some uncomforted, cold moods, I cast my soul before you, Sweet! My very soul beneath your feet, And, daring and despairing, think That could I stoop but once and drink,-- One little moment lean above The sealed, lost fountain of your love,-- Could taste, just taste before I die, Its sacred, sheltered mystery,-- Could call you for one hour mine! One little, little hour mine!-- I think I could arise and go From out your presence then, and know Myself that possible poised man Who, living, loving, longing, can Yet make himself the thing he may,-- Live in the woman's nobler way,-- Love, asking Love no other gauge Than the exceeding privilege Of adding by some patient stress. Of pain, unto the happiness,-- Or be it bright, or be it dim-- Of the sweet soul denied to him.