her pride, With rude unfeeling hands, was wrenched aside: And by mean avarice, or vulgar show, Her quivering woman’s heart was made to know That she was but a chattel, bought to fill Whatever niche might please the buyer’s will. p. 38 So she was murdered, while the slow years went. And her assassin, honoured, opulent, Lived with no punishment, or social ban! ‘A good provider, a successful man.’ p. 39UNSATISFIED p. 39 The bird flies home to its young; The flower folds its leaves about an opening bud; And in my neighbour’s house there is the cry of a child. I close my window that I need not hear. She is mine, and she is very beautiful: And in her heart there is no evil thought. There is even love in her heart— Love of life, love of joy, love of this fair world, And love of me (or love of my love for her); Yet she will never consent to bear me a child. And when I speak of it she weeps, Always she weeps, saying: ‘Do I not bring joy enough into your life? Are you not satisfied with me and my love, As I am satisfied with you? Never would I urge you to some great peril To please my whim; yet ever so you urge me, p. 40Urge me to risk my happiness—yea, life itself— So lightly do you hold me.’ And then she weeps, Always she weeps, until I kiss away her tears And soothe her with sweet lies, saying I am content. Then she goes singing through the house like some bright bird Preening her wings, making herself all beautiful, Perching upon my knee, and pecking at my lips With little kisses. So again love’s ship Goes sailing forth upon a portless sea, From nowhere unto nowhere; and it takes Or brings no cargoes to enrich the world. p. 40 The years Are passing by us. We will yet be old Who now are young. And all the man in me Cries for the reproduction of myself Through her I love. Why, love and youth like ours Could populate with gods and goddesses This great, green earth, and give the race new types Were it made fruitful! Often I can see, As in a vision, desolate old age And loneliness descending on us two, And nowhere in the world, nowhere beyond the earth, Fruit of my loins and of her womb to feed p. 41Our hungry hearts. To me it seems More sorrowful than sitting by small graves And wetting sad-eyed pansies with our tears. p. 41 The bird flies home to its
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