Your Fault

Your fault, Lady, is to be Womankind’s epitome; No girl’s, but girl essential is your being Could we but see beyond our mortal seeing, Could we but hear beyond our mortal song The song immortal of seraphic throng, Could we but know upon each mortal sign The seal of immortality divine. ’Tis no virtue that you are Virtuous—nor for the star To shine, nor flowers to array Themselves in glory from the clay; That yours is wisdom old and new For this we praise your God—not you; Yet there is something we can still Sing in your praise—your wayward will; Something there is that you may own, Your faults, thank God, are yours alone Not heaven’s, nor ever may we doubt If these from heaven can shtit you out Ourselves shall storm the desperate road And welcome you to your abode. ’Tis for this fault we love you, that your eyes Regard not unattainable Paradise, That not amid the fiery stars you spread The nets of your hair, not ever towards the dead Set your unwavering feet, your gentle words Clothe not in thunders that make mute the birds, Nor yet perplex your pentecostal tongue With songs too crazy to be said or sung, Never make moan of other’s joys and fears And see all Nature weeping through your tears, Fly not, Icarian-wingéd, to the sun Leaving the many to pursue the one, Chasing, yet hooded hawk, a Shining Dove, Nor break your heart about the feet of Love.