the home book of verse-1-第75章
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The fairyland of her realities。
She hides herself behind a busy brain …
A woman； with a child's laugh in her blood；
A maid； wearing the shadow of motherhood …
Wise with the quiet memory of old pain；
As the soft glamor of remembered rain
Hallows the gladness of a sunlit wood。
Brian Hooker ＇1880…
THE ROSE OF THE WORLD
Who dreamed that beauty passes like a dream？
For these red lips； with all their mournful pride；
Mournful that no new wonder may betide；
Troy passed away in one high funeral gleam；
And Usna's children died。
We and the laboring world are passing by：
Amid men's souls； that waver and give place；
Like the pale waters in their wintry race；
Under the passing stars； foam of the sky；
Lives on this lonely face。
Bow down； archangels； in your dim abode：
Before you were； or any hearts to beat；
Weary and kind one lingered by His seat；
He made the world to be a grassy road
Before her wandering feet。
William Butler Yeats ＇1865…
DAWN OF WOMANHOOD
Thus will I have the woman of my dream。
Strong must she be and gentle； like a star
Her soul burn whitely； nor its arrowy beam
May any cloud of superstition mar：
True to the earth she is； patient and calm。
Her tranquil eyes shall penetrate afar
Through centuries； and her maternal arm
Enfold the generations yet unborn；
Nor she； by passing glamor nor alarm；
Will from the steadfast way of life be drawn。
Gray…eyed and fearless； I behold her gaze
Outward into the furnace of the dawn。
Sacred shall be the purport of her days；
Yet human； and the passion of the earth
Shall be for her adornment and her praise。
She is most often joyous； with a mirth
That rings true…tempered holy womanhood；
She cannot fear the agonies of birth；
Nor sit in pallid lethargy and brood
Upon the coming seasons of her pain：
By her the mystery is understood
Of harvest； and fulfilment in the grain。
Yea； she is wont to labor in the field；
Delights to heap； at sunset； on the wain
Festoons and coronals of the golden yield。
A triumph is the labor of her soul；
Sublime along eternity revealed。
Lo； everlastingly in her control；
Under the even measure of her breath；
Like crested waves the onward centuries roll。
Nor to far heaven her spirit wandereth；
Nor lifteth she her voice in barren prayer；
Nor trembleth at appearances of death。
She； godlike in her womanhood； will fare
Calm…visaged and heroic to the end。
The homestead is her most especial care；
She loves the sacred hearth： she will defend
Her gods from desecration of the vile。
Fierce； like a wounded tigress； she can rend
Whatever may have entered to defile。
I see her in the evening by the fire；
And in her eyes； illumined from the pile
Of blazing logs； a motherly desire
Glows like the moulded passion of a rose；
Beautiful is her presence in the bower：
Her spirit is the spirit of repose。
Mankind shall hold her motherhood in awe：
Woman is she indeed； and not of those
That he with sacramental gold must draw
Discreetly to his chamber in the night；
Or bind to him with fetters of the law。
He holds her by a spiritual right。
With diamond and with pearl he need not sue；
Nor will she deck herself for his delight：
Beauty is the adornment of the true。
She shall possess for ornament and gem
A flower； the glowworm； or the drop of dew：
More innocently fair than all of them；
It will not even shame her if she make
A coronal of stars her diadem。
Though she is but a vision； I can take
Courage from her。 I feel her arrowy beam
Already； for her spirit is awake；
And passes down the future like a gleam； …
Thus have I made the woman of my dream。
Harold Monro ＇1879…1932＇
THE SHEPHERDESS
She walks … the lady of my delight …
A shepherdess of sheep。
Her flocks are thoughts。 She keeps them white；
She guards them from the steep。
She feeds them on the fragrant height；
And folds them in for sleep。
She roams maternal hills and bright；
Dark valleys safe and deep。
Into that tender breast at night
The chastest stars may peep。
She walks … the lady of my delight …
A shepherdess of sheep。
She holds her little thoughts in sight；
Though gay they run and leap。
She is so circumspect and right；
She has her soul to keep。
She walks … the lady of my delight …
A shepherdess of sheep。
Alice Meynell ＇1853…1922＇
A PORTRAIT
Mother and maid and soldier； bearing best
Her girl's lithe body under matron gray；
And opening new eyes on each new day
With faith concealed and courage unconfessed；
Jealous to cloak a blessing in a jest；
Clothe beauty carefully in disarray；
And love absurdly； that no word betray
The worship all her deeds make manifest：
Armored in smiles； a motley Britomart …
Her lance is high adventure； tipped with scorn；
Her banner to the suns and winds unfurled；
Washed white with laughter； and beneath her heart；
Shrined in a garland of laborious thorn；
Blooms the unchanging Rose of all the World。
Brian Hooker ＇1880…
THE WIFE
The little Dreams of Maidenhood …
I put them all away
As tenderly as mother would
The toys of yesterday；
When little children grow to men
Too over…wise for play。
The little dreams I put aside …
I loved them every one；
And yet since moon…blown buds must hide
Before the noon…day sun；
I close them wistfully away
And give the key to none。
O little Dreams of Maidenhood …
Lie quietly； nor care
If some day in an idle mood
I； searching unaware
Through some closed corner of my heart；
Should laugh to find you there。
Theodosia Garrison ＇1874…
〃TRUSTY； DUSKY； VIVID； TRUE〃
Trusty； dusky； vivid； true；
With eyes of gold and bramble…dew；
Steel true and blade straight
The great Artificer made my mate。
Honor； anger； valor； fire；
A love that life could never tire；
Death quench； or evil stir；
The mighty Master gave to her。
Teacher； tender comrade； wife；
A fellow…farer true through life；
Heart…whole and soul…free；
The August Father gave to me。
Robert Louis Stevenson ＇1850…1894＇
THE SHRINE
There is a shrine whose golden gate
Was opened by the Hand of God；
It stands serene； inviolate；
Though millions have its pavement trod；
As fresh； as when the first sunrise
Awoke the lark in Paradise。
'Tis compassed with the dust and toil
Of common days； yet should there fall
A single speck； a single soil
Upon the whiteness of its wall；
The angels' tears in tender rain
Would make the temple theirs again。
Without； the world is tired and old；
But； once within the enchanted door；
The mists of time are backward rolled；
And creeds and ages are no more；
But all the human…hearted meet
In one communion vast and sweet。
I enter … all is simply fair；
Nor incense…clouds； nor carven throne；
But in the fragrant morning air
A gentle lady sits alone；
My mother … ah！ whom should I see
Within； save ever only thee？
Digby Mackworth Dolben ＇1848…1867＇
THE VOICE
As I went down the hill I heard
The laughter of the countryside；
For； rain being past； the whole land stirred
With new emotion； like a bride。
I scarce had left the grassy lane；
When something made me catch my breath：
A woman called； and called again；
Elizabeth！ Elizabeth！
It was my mother's name。 A part
Of wounded memory sprang to tears；
And the few violets of my heart
Shook in the wind of happier years。
Quicker than magic came the face
That once was sun and moon for me；
The garden shawl； the cap of lace；
The collie's head against her knee。
Mother； who findest out a way
To pass the sentinels； and stand
Behind my chair at close of day；
To touch me … almost … with thy hand；
Deep in my breast； how sure； how clear；
The lamp of love
