“And your lordship judges rightly. Whom I marry, shall be noble,

Ay, and wealthy. I shall never blush to think how he was born”.

There, I maddened! her words stung me! Life swept through me into fever,

And my soul sprang up astonished; sprang full-statured in an hour:

Know you what it is when, anguish, with apocalyptic NEVER,

To a Pythian height dilates you, — and despair sublimes to power?

From my brain the soul-wings budded! — waved a flame about my body,

Whence conventions coiled to ashes: I felt self-drawn out, as man,

From amalgamate false natures; and I saw the skies grow ruddy

With the deepening feet of angels, and I knew what spirits can.

I was mad, — inspired, — say either! anguish worketh inspiration,—

Was a man or beast — perhaps so; for the tiger roars when speared;

And I walked on, step by step, along the level of my passion—

Oh my soul! and passed the doorway to her face, and never feared.

He had left her, — peradventure, when my footstep proved my coming,—

But for her, — she half arose, then sat — grew scarlet and grew pale:

Oh she trembled! — ’tis so always with a worldly man or woman

In the presence of true spirits, — what else can they do but quail?

Oh, she fluttered like a tame bird, in among its forest brothers

Far too strong for it! then drooping, bowed her face upon her hands,—

And I spake out wildly, fiercely, brutal truths of her and others!

I, she planted in the desert, swathed her, windlike, with my sands.

I plucked up her social fictions, bloody-rooted though leaf-verdant,

Trod them down with words of shaming, — all the purple and the gold,

All the “landed stakes” and lordships, — all that spirits pure and ardent

Are cast out of love and honor because chancing not to hold.

“For myself I do not argue”, said I, “though I love you, madam;

But for better souls that nearer to the height of yours have trod.

And this age shows to my thinking, still more infidels to Adam,

Than directly, by profession, simple infidels to God.

“Yet, O God”, I said, “O grave”, I said, “O mother’s heart and bosom,

With whom first and last are equal, saint and corpse and little child!

We are fools to your deductions, in these figments of heart-closing!

We are traitors to your causes, in these sympathies defiled!

“Learn more reverence, madam, not for rank or wealth, — that needs no learning;

That comes quickly — quick as sin does, ay, and culminates to sin;

But for Adam’s seed, MAN! Trust me, ’tis a clay above your scorning,

With God’s image stamped upon it, and God’s kindling breath within.

“What right have you, madam, gazing in your palace-mirror daily,

Getting so by heart your beauty, which all others must adore,

While you draw the golden ringlets down your fingers, to vow gayly

You will wed no man that’s only good to God, — and nothing more?

“Why, what right have you, made fair by that same God, — the sweetest woman

Of all women He has fashioned, — with your lovely spirit-face,

Which would seem too near to vanish if its smile were not so human,

And your voice of holy sweetness, turning common words to grace,

“What right can you have, God’s other works to scorn, despise, revile them

In the gross, as mere men, broadly, — not as noble men, forsooth,—

As mere Pariahs of the outer world, forbidden to assoil them

In the hope of living, dying, near that sweetness of your mouth?

“Have you any answer, madam? If my spirit were less earthly,

If its instrument were gifted with a better silver string,

I would kneel down where I stand, and say, — Behold me! I am worthy

Of thy loving, for I love thee! I am worthy as a king.

“As it is, — your ermined pride, I swear, shall feel this stain upon her,—

That I, poor, weak, tost with passion, scorned by me and you again,

Love you, Madam, — dare to love you, — to my grief and your dishonor,—

To my endless desolation, and your impotent disdain!”

More mad words like these, — more madness! friend, I need not write them fuller;

And I hear my hot soul dropping on the lines in showers of tears—

Oh, a woman! friend, a woman! Why, a beast had scarce been duller

Than roar bestial loud complaints against the shining of the spheres.

But at last there came a pause. I stood all vibrating with thunder

Which my soul had used. The silence drew her face up like a call.

Could you guess what word she uttered? She looked up, as if in wonder,

With tears beaded on her lashes, and said “Bertram!” it was all.

If she had cursed me, — and she might have, — or if even, with queenly bearing

Which at needs is used by women, she had risen up and said,

“Sir, you are my guest, and therefore I have given you a full hearing,—