A Woman's Mood

Because you cannot pluck the flower, You pass the sweet scent by; Because you cannot have the stars You will not see the sky No matter what the fable means Put into English speech; No matter what the thing may be You long for, out of reach. 'T is out of reach, and that 's enough For you and me for aye, And understood in that still speech That souls interpret by. The "little language" of a look, A tone, a turn, a touch, An eloquence that while it speaketh Nothing, yet sayeth much. Suppose that in some steadfast hour I offered you the hand Of a woman's faithful friendliness-- Ah, hush! I understand. I spare you speech, to spare you pain; Perhaps I 'd spare you more Than men are made to comprehend, If, as I said before, I held to you that open hand, And you should turn away I hardly know which one of us Were hurt the worse that day. I hardly know the reason why, But women are so made; I could not give a man a rose To see it 'neath his tread. Although he trod on it, indeed, To save his very soul From stifling in the thoughts of me Its sweetness might enroll. I 'd rather he should gather it Within his trembling hand As sacredly as twilight takes The shapes of sea and land, And solemnly as twilight learns, In lonely, purple state, Upon the hills the sun has fled To bide its time, and wait. For what?--to wait for what, you ask? I cannot tell, indeed, For what. I do not know for what. It is the woman's creed! I only know I 'd wait, and keep Steel-loyal and steel-true Unto the highest hope I held, Though 't were the saddest, too. Unto the deepest faith I had In a created thing; Unto the largest love I knew, Though love's delight took wing And fled away from me, and left Love's dear regret alone. The chrism of loving all I could, And loving only one. I think the woman I preferred-- If I were such a man-- Might lean out helpfully across My life's imperfect plan; Might lend me mercy, grace, and peace In fashion womanly, Although I knew her rarest smile Would never shine on me; I think I 'd say right manfully,-- And so it all would end,-- Than any other woman's love, I 'd rather be her friend! And take the hand she dared not hold, Before its courage slips, And take the word she could not speak From off her grieving lips, And be to her heart what I could (We will not mark the line), And, like a comrade, call her soul To walk in peace with mine. A nobler man for that grave peace, I think, dear friend, I were, And richer were I than to lose My love in losing her. And if I speak a riddle, sir, That on your fancy jars,-- You know we're talking about flowers, And thinking about stars!