The Way of a Maid
THE lover whose soul shaken isIn some decuman billow of bliss,Who feels his gradual-wading feetSink in some sudden hollow of sweet,And ’mid love’s usèd converse comesSharp on a mood which all joy sums—An instant’s fine compendium ofThe liberal-leavèd writ of love;His abashed pulses beating thickAt the exigent joy and quick,Is dumbed, by aiming utterance greatUp to the miracle of his fate.The wise girl, such Icarian fallSaved by her confidence that she’s small,—As what no kindred word will fitIs uttered best by opposite,Love in the tongue of hate exprest,And deepest anguish in a jest,—Feeling the infinite must beBest said by triviality,Speaks, where expression bates its wings,Just happy, alien, little things;What of all words is in excessImplies in a sweet nothingness,With dailiest babble shows her senseThat full speech were full impotence;And while she feels the heavens lie bare,She only talks about her hair.