Classic Poem

Canto I

XIX

Some men, 'tis said, prefer a woman fat.
Lord Byron did. Some like her very spare.
Some like a lameness. (I have known one that
Would go quite far enough for your despair,
And halt in time.) Some like them delicate
As lilies, and with some " the only wear "
Is one whose sex has spoil'd a midshipman.
Some only like what pleased another man.

XX

I like one that likes me . But there's a kind
Of women, very dangerous to poets,
Whose hearts beat with a truth that seems like mind —
A nature that, though passionate, will show its
Devotion by not being rash or blind;
But by sweet study grows to love. And so it's
Not odd if they are counted cold, though handsome,
And never meet a man who understands 'em.

XXI

By never , I mean late in life. But ah!
How exquisite their love and friendship then!
Perennial of soul such women are,
And readers of the hearts of gifted men;
And as the deep well mourns the hidden star,
And mirrors the first ray that beams again,
They — be the loved light lost or dimly burning,
Feel all its clouds, and trust its bright returning.

XXII

In outward seeming tranquil and subdued,
Their hearts beneath beat youthfully and fast.
Time and imprison'd love make not a prude;
And warm the gift we know to be the last;
And pure is the devotion that must brood
Upon your hopes alone — for hers are past!
Trust me, " a rising man " rose seldom higher,
But some dear, sweet old maid has pull'd the wire.

XCI

If, in well-bred society, ( " hear! hear! " ).
If, in this " wrong and pleasant " world of ours
There beats a pulse that seraphs may revere —
If Eden's birds, when frighted from its flowers,
Clung to one deathless seed, still blooming here —
If Time cut ever down, 'mid blighted hours,
A bliss that will spring up in bliss again —
'Tis woman's love. This I believe. Amen.