[1]<\/sup><\/a><\/p>\n Once more the storm is howling, and half hid I have walked and prayed for this young child an hour May she be granted beauty and yet not Helen[3]<\/sup><\/a>\u00a0being chosen found life flat and dull In courtesy I’d have her chiefly learned; May she become a flourishing hidden tree My mind, because the minds that I have loved, An intellectual hatred is the worst, Considering that, all hatred driven hence, And may her bridegroom bring her to a house \u2014<\/b>1921<\/p>\n
\nUnder this cradle-hood and coverlid
\nMy child sleeps on.\u00a0 There is no obstacle
\nBut Gregory’s wood[2]<\/sup><\/a>\u00a0and one bare hill
\nWhereby the haystack- and roof-levelling wind.
\nBred on the Atlantic, can be stayed;
\nAnd for an hour I have walked and prayed
\nBecause of the great gloom that is in my mind.<\/p>\n
\nAnd heard the sea-wind scream upon the tower,
\nAnd-under the arches of the bridge, and scream
\nIn the elms above the flooded stream;
\nImagining in excited reverie
\nThat the future years had come,
\nDancing to a frenzied drum,
\nOut of the murderous innocence of the sea.<\/p>\n
\nBeauty to make a stranger’s eye distraught,
\nOr hers before a looking-glass, for such,
\nBeing made beautiful overmuch,
\nConsider beauty a sufficient end,
\nLose natural kindness and maybe
\nThe heart-revealing intimacy
\nThat chooses right, and never find a friend.<\/p>\n
\nAnd later had much trouble from a fool,
\nWhile that great Queen,[4]<\/sup><\/a>\u00a0that rose out of the spray,
\nBeing fatherless could have her way
\nYet chose a bandy-legged smith[5]<\/sup><\/a>\u00a0for man.
\nIt’s certain that fine women[6]<\/sup><\/a>\u00a0eat
\nA crazy salad with their meat
\nWhereby the Horn of plenty[7]<\/sup><\/a>\u00a0is undone.<\/p>\n
\nHearts are not had as a gift but hearts are earned
\nBy those that are not entirely beautiful;
\nYet many, that have played the fool
\nFor beauty’s very self, has charm made wise.
\nAnd many a poor man that has roved,
\nLoved and thought himself beloved,
\nFrom a glad kindness cannot take his eyes.<\/p>\n
\nThat all her thoughts may like the linnet be,
\nAnd have no business but dispensing round
\nTheir magnanimities of sound,
\nNor but in merriment begin a chase,
\nNor but in merriment a quarrel.
\nO may she live like some green laurel
\nRooted in one dear perpetual place.<\/p>\n
\nThe sort of beauty that I have approved,
\nProsper but little, has dried up of late,
\nYet knows that to be choked with hate
\nMay well be of all evil chances chief.
\nIf there’s no hatred in a mind
\nAssault and battery of the wind
\nCan never tear the linnet from the leaf.<\/p>\n
\nSo let her think opinions are accursed.
\nHave I not seen the loveliest woman[8]<\/sup><\/a>\u00a0born
\nOut of the mouth of plenty’s horn,
\nBecause of her opinionated mind
\nBarter that horn and every good
\nBy quiet natures understood
\nFor an old bellows full of angry wind?<\/p>\n
\nThe soul recovers radical innocence
\nAnd learns at last that it is self-delighting,
\nSelf-appeasing, self-affrighting,
\nAnd that its own sweet will is Heaven’s will;
\nShe can, though every face should scowl
\nAnd every windy quarter howl
\nOr every bellows burst, be happy still.<\/p>\n
\nWhere all’s accustomed, ceremonious;
\nFor arrogance and hatred are the wares
\nPeddled in the thoroughfares.
\nHow but in custom and in ceremony
\nAre innocence and beauty born?
\nCeremony’s a name for the rich horn,
\nAnd custom for the spreading laurel tree.<\/p>\n