Crying amid the glittering sea,

      Naming it with ecstatic breath,

      Because it had such dignity

      By the sweet name of Death.

      Though I’d my finger on my lip,

      What could I but take up the song?

      And fish and crowd and gaudy ship

      Cried out the whole night long,

      And fishes bubbling to the brim

      Cried out upon that thing beneath,

      It had such dignity of limb,

      By the sweet name of Death.

      And though I would have hushed the crowd

      There was no mother’s son but said,

      “What is the figure in a shroud

      Upon a gaudy bed?”

      I swayed upon the gaudy stern

      The butt end of a steering oar,

      And everywhere that I could turn

      Men ran upon the shore.

      For she had fiery blood

      When I was young,

      And trod so sweetly proud

      As ’twere upon a cloud,

      A woman Homer sung,

      That life and letters seem

      But an heroic dream.

      Whereon I wrote and wrought,

      And now, being gray,

      I dream that I have brought

      To such a pitch my thought

      That coming time can say,

      “He shadowed in a glass

      What thing her body was.”

      If any man drew near

      When I was young,

      I thought, “He holds her dear,”

      And shook with hate and fear.

      But oh, ’twas bitter wrong

      If he could pass her by

      With an indifferent eye.

      She lived in storm and strife.

      Her soul had such desire

      For what proud death may bring

      That it could not endure

      The common good of life,

      But lived as ’twere a king

      That packed his marriage day

      With banneret and pennon,

      Trumpet and kettledrum,

      And the outrageous cannon,

      To bundle Time away

      That the night come.

      That had she done so who can say

      What would have shaken from the sieve?

      I might have thrown poor words away

      And been content to live.

      That every year I have cried, “At length

      My darling understands it all,

      Because I have come into my strength,

      And words obey my call.”

      And I grew weary of the sun

      Until my thoughts cleared up again,

      Remembering that the best I have done

      Was done to make it plain;

      I had this thought awhile ago,

      “My darling cannot understand

      What I have done, or what would do

      In this blind bitter land.”

      Now must I these three praise —

      Three women that have wrought

      What joy is in my days;

      One that no passing thought,

      Nor those unpassing cares,

      No, not in these fifteen

      Many times troubled years,

      Could ever come between

      Heart and delighted heart;

      And one because her hand

      Had strength that could unbind

      What none can understand,

      What none can have and thrive,

      Youth’s dreamy load, till she

      So changed me that I live

      Labouring in ecstasy.

      And what of her that took

      All till my youth was gone

      With scarce a pitying look?

      How should I praise that one?

      When day begins to break

      I count my good and bad,

      Being wakeful for her sake,

      Remembering what she had,

      What eagle look still shows,

      While up from my heart’s root

      So great a sweetness flows

      I shake from head to foot.

      Why should I blame her that she filled my days

      With misery, or that she would of late

      Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways,

      Or hurled the little streets upon the great,

      Had they but courage equal to desire?

      What could have made her peaceful with a mind

      That nobleness made simple as a fire,

      With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind

      That is not natural in an age like this,

      Being high and solitary and most stern?

      Why, what could she have done being what she is?

      Was there another Troy for her to burn?

      Some may have blamed you that you took away

      The verses that could move them on the day

      When, the ears being deafened, the sight of the eyes blind

      With lightning you went from me, and I could find

      Nothing to make a song about but kings,

      Helmets, and swords, and half-forgotten things

      That were like memories of you – but now

      We’ll out, for the world lives as long ago;

      And while we’re in our laughing, weeping fit,

      Hurl helmets, crowns, and swords into the pit.

      But, dear, cling close to me; since you were gone,

      My barren thoughts have chilled me to the bone.