Woman by Francis
Author of `Clinton Bradshaw,' Etc.
How beautiful is woman's life, When first her suppliant woos and
kneels, And she with young and warm hopes rife, Believes he deeply
feels. Then day is gladness, and the night Looks on her with its
starry eyes, As though it gave her all their might Over men's
destinies. Wrapt watchers of the skicy gleam, Then men are like
astronomers Who gaze and gladden at the beam Of that bright eye of
hers. And if a frown obscure its light, 'Tis like a cloud to
star-struck men, Through the long watches of the night, — Oh! for
that beam again! How heart-struck that astrologer, A gazer on the
starry zone, When first he looked in vain for her, The lovely Pleiad
gone. But men watch not the stars always — And though the Pleiad
may be lost, Yet still there are a thousand rays From the surrounding
host. And woman, long before the grave Closes above her dreamless
rest, May be man's empress and his slave, And his discarded jest.
Still may that Pleiad shine afar, But pleasure-led o,er summer seas,
Who dwells upon a single star Amid the Pleiades. Man courts the
constellations bright, That beam upon his bounding bark, Nor thinks
upon the left lone light, 'Till all above is dark. Then when he knows
nor land nor main, And darkly is his frail bark tossed, He counts the
separate stars in vain And mourns the Pleiad lost.