Weal And Woe

O highest, strongest, sweetest woman-soul! Thou holdest in the compass of thy grace All the strange fate and passion of thy race: Of the old, primal curse thou knowest the whole: Thine eyes, too wise, are heavy with the dole, The doubt, the dread of all this human maze; Thou in the virgin morning of thy days Hast felt the bitter waters o'er thee roll. Yet thou knowest, too, the terrible delight, The still content, and solemn ecstasy Whatever sharp, sweet bliss thy kind may know. Thy spirit is deep for pleasure as for woe- Deep as the rich, dark-caverned, awful sea That the keen winded, glimmering dawn makes white.