Madam, my heart is full Of other thoughts.
Of love?--Pray--what is love? How should a woman love?--Although we hate Each other well, we need not try to prove Our hate by silence--for there is a fate Against it in us women; speak we must, And ever shall until we’re turned to dust, Nay--I’m not sure but even then we talk From grave to grave under the churchyard-walk-- Whose bones last longest--whose the finest shroud-- And--is there not a most unseemly crowd In pauper’s corner yonder? --You are shocked? You do not see, then, that I only mocked At my own fears--as those poor French lads sang Their gayest songs at the red barricade, Clear on the air their boyish voices rang In chorus, even while the bayonet made An end of them.--He may be suffering now-- He may be calling-- There! I’ve made a vow To keep on talking. So, then--tell me, pray, How should a woman love?
I, too; my faith is absolute. We share That good in common. I believe his love Is great as mine, and mine--oh, could I prove My love by dying for him, far too small The test; I’d give my love, my soul, my all, In life, in death, in immortality, Content in hell itself (if there be hells-- Which much I doubt)--content, so I could be With him!
Is it a woman’s tongue that tells This blasphemy? When I said faith, I meant A faith in God.
And God is love! He sent This love that fills my heart. Oh, most divine-- Oh, nearest to him of all earthly things, A love that passeth self--a love like mine That passeth understanding. The bird sings Because it is the only way he knows To praise his Maker; and a love that flows Like mine is worship, too--a hymn that rolls Up to the God of Love, who gave us souls To love with. Then the hidden sacrifice; It formed a part of worship once, and I Do hold it now the part that deepest lies In woman’s love, the dim sanctuary Behind the veil, holy of holies, kept E’en from the one she loves: all told, except This mystic feeling which she may not know How to express in words--the martyr’s glow Idealized--the wish to give him joy Through her own suffering, and so destroy All part that self might play--to offer pure Her love to her heart’s idol. Strange, obscure, Sacred, but mighty, is this longing; I Can feel though not define it. I would die To make him happy!