Song of a Woman 
 
 Mrs. George Cran
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 The Song of a Woman 
 
 By 
 
 MRS. GEORGE CRAN 
 
 LONDON 
 
 ELKIN MATHEWS, VIGO STREET 
 
 M CM IX
 
 UllL 
 
 THE WOMAN 
 THE LOVER 
 
 THE GREAT FRIEND 
 
 9179C8
 
 The lover first has sight of the woman
 
 OUT of the myriad faces 
 Yours came. . . . 
 Out of the dust and ashes of time 
 Like flame. . . . 
 Out of the thronging nights and days 
 Has stood for a moment your face at gaze. 
 
 * ♦ * * 
 
 Back to the myriad faces 
 We know. . . . 
 Back to the dust and ashes of time 
 
 We go. 
 But a fearless moment has passed between, 
 And the fields of memory are good to glean.
 
 The lover and the woman meet
 
 THERE is no hoard of memories 'twixt us two ; 
 No sv/eet hived-honey of the golden Past ; — 
 No glad "Do you remembers?" can be cast 
 From you to me. You have not given me rue, 
 Nor rosemary— reared by some dear vanished dew, 
 Nor pansies— for the thought of days long past. 
 
 Through all the lack of these I am content. 
 I know you now, so can forgive the Fate 
 That brought our meeting-time and place so late ; 
 
 We are not strangers now,— the veil is rent; 
 
 My soul has fronted your sweet soul, and sent 
 
 The message. You shall love me. I can wait.
 
 She gives him her first gift
 
 A COLD, bright breeze from the river, 
 And a cold, white moon in the sky 
 Spring is bashful of coming 
 And winter is loth to die ; 
 But life has stirred in the saplings 
 And we thrill to it, you and I. 
 
 Thrill to the cold, keen vigour 
 
 Of life in its first fine phase. 
 And never a trace of the rose-tide 
 
 Mars our innocent ways ; 
 None of the passion and languor 
 
 Of June and the latter days. 
 
 You offer me pallid snowdrops, 
 
 Cold and exceeding bright, 
 With the lash of the breezes stinging 
 
 Your eyes to a frosty light, 
 While the great Queen Moon in her heaven 
 
 Silvers the splendid night.
 
 The woman admits bim to ber friendship
 
 OW must I taste the weary little smart 
 
 That hurts me always after your goodbyes! 
 But most there hangs upon my happy heart 
 The benediction of your generous eyes. 
 
 And round my mouth, and in my hair there stirs 
 The South-West wind of all your courtesy ; 
 
 The brave, frank wind that sweeps'the soul, and blurs, 
 A harsh horizon with kind flattery.
 
 The lover muses upon the woman
 
 ON brave, great hiils two brave hearts met, and 
 made you ; 
 On the great hills, I swear, because you shed 
 The frank, unfailing spirit of the mountains 
 Like atmosphere about you where you tread ; 
 A fluent halo round you, where you tread. 
 
 The breath of fir, and bracken, and great waters 
 Gathered upon your heart when you were born, 
 
 And left a trace of wonder unforgotten, — 
 The veil upon the soul a little torn ; 
 Your soul has ragged edges where 'twas torn. 
 
 And there have purred about you fond, full breezes; 
 
 The twilight and the sunrise dyed your mouth, 
 Where the first kisses wait, I think. Beloved, 
 
 To slake the grieving hurt of my soul's drouth ; 
 
 And wait . . . and wait . . . O bitter days of drouth ! 
 
 13
 
 The great friend hears her sing and prays her to 
 cease
 
 THOU drawest all my life and peace away 
 With thy rare music dear. Be pitiful ! 
 I am but human and this power of song 
 Intoxicates, — like wine that is too strong. 
 Stay that full note. The lark is merciful : 
 Lest he should break our hearts at dawn of day 
 He soars and sings, — but falling, stills his lay. 
 
 Ah listen! How they pour Hke molten gold. 
 Those limpid, pure, ecstatic notes of thine ; 
 They draw my soul thro' tangled glades of sense 
 (Till every nerve is tightly strung and tense) 
 To where thou art, enthroned with Song divine ; 
 I shall remember this when years are old, — 
 When life is faint, and love is growing cold. 
 
 It shivers downward like a thousand rains, 
 This storm of Song. It swiftly gathers pace, 
 And runs a silvered course of purest glee 
 Thro' all the jewelled ways of harmony. 
 Then suddenly it takes a chastened grace 
 And down the minor cadence droops and wanes 
 To sudden silence— and great peace obtains. 
 
 15
 
 The lover grows ardent
 
 ALL night I watched the stars that watched your 
 dreams ; 
 The waxen roses that climb purely up 
 To clasp your window, know how glad I was 
 To see the Dawn-wine brim within the Cup. 
 
 That Cup is over-brimmed this hour and more! 
 
 Come out and taste the dew, — and see the Mist 
 Curl backward from the mountains. O my love. 
 
 The whole night long your mouth has been unkissed. 
 
 17
 
 The woman gives the lover the great gift
 
 A 
 
 ND so, to offer you the rarest thing, 
 
 I offer nought ; 
 The kiss, more sweet than any you have known, 
 A kiss unwrought. 
 
 I give you more than you have ever had. 
 
 My empty hand 
 All gift withholds. Belov'd, I dare not hope 
 
 You understand! 
 
 Here of my mouth I make the only mouth 
 
 You may not touch ; 
 But in this gift I give the best I have 
 
 And suffer much. 
 
 19
 
 The lover accepts the gift of the woman
 
 THE splendid sun rides high in heaven ; 
 And silence of great Noon 
 Presses its flaming mantle close 
 To stay the breath of June. 
 
 And O the mantle of your hands 
 
 That presses on my heart. 
 And O the distance of your smile 
 
 Tho' we're not far apart. 
 
 Ah I burning eyes like warm, wild thyme, 
 
 And bitter fragrant face, — 
 I may not hold you, — though are here 
 
 The "loved one, time and place." 
 
 So I will make an altar of the Noon 
 To sacrifice my eager heart upon. 
 
 2Z
 
 Tbey part purely, and the lover sails to a far land
 
 SEE now, the Night! 
 And here we part to bind our brows with sleep ; 
 The Quaker mists along the valley sweep 
 The silent stars a glimmering watch will keep. 
 
 Across your hair 
 There throbs a light,— the last that knew the West. 
 Good-night . . . good-night . . . now all the world has rest. 
 I would my hands were folded on your breast. 
 
 23
 
 The great friend confesses to himself his lore for 
 the woman
 
 JUST one I love 
 Has passed by silent on the other side, 
 While some I love not crov/d to call me dear ; 
 And I have stretched out empty heart and hands 
 
 To one, the only one, who will not hear. 
 The harvest time of love is come, and lo ! 
 The corn I sowed is withered in the ear. 
 
 Nay, my one love, 
 Because you go your way, and I go mine, 
 
 Nor call you dear, nor dare to deem you such ; 
 Because my eyes may frankly look to yours, 
 
 And fearless fingers meet in friendly touch . . . 
 Because of these I love your lightest word, 
 
 O silent tongue, that has not praised me much. 
 
 25
 
 The great friend chides her that she wastes her 
 life in a dream, and she makes answer
 
 BLAME me not 
 That I have laid this memory reverently 
 Among the tender rose-leaves of my past ; 
 Like rare old lace, or treasured needlework, 
 
 Enfolded where sweet lavender is cast. 
 Rich fragrance of remembrance crowns the place 
 Where I have laid the shadow of his face. 
 
 Ah ! chide me not 
 That I must sometimes slip from stronger moods 
 
 To mourn upon the past which I love yet ; 
 Or that my days are woven into webs 
 
 That only know for 'broidery . . . regret! 
 O you in your full life can never know 
 How harsh the weaving is, how harsh and slow. 
 
 27
 
 The lover in a far land makes choice
 
 ALL wonder, all delight, and all rejoicing 
 Await me at a gate that well I wot ; 
 Yet memories pooled in pain, as lakes in rushes, 
 Dim hours to be endured, and then forgot, 
 Await me at a gate that well I wot. 
 
 No aftermath will bless the scanty harvest 
 That I must garner if I go to glean ; 
 
 No fruitful sheaves to hoard for hungry Winter, 
 I know, for I have looked the bars between 
 . . . But I must surely, surely go to glean. 
 
 Yet O there might be wonder in the winning; 
 We might be wise, and cheat the cynic fate, — 
 
 If I could stand aside and v/ait for ever. 
 So greatly need, and you so dearly wait; — 
 Alas my heart! to cheat the cynic fate! 
 
 Pure hands I stand before, and fear the finding. 
 That fight so hard to guard a broken gate, 
 
 Lift up the hands— I needs must pass to harvest. 
 Lift up the hands, lift up ! we will not wait ; 
 I know the bitter gleaning,— O open me the gate. 
 
 29
 
 The lover and the woman sail to the island of 
 sv^eet broom
 
 I 
 
 N an old land, in a far land, 
 
 Where the troubled waters flow. 
 Is the gold land, is the starland. 
 Yellow Lyngvi, lying low. 
 
 Darkened waters purr and bubble 
 Round that island of Sweet Broom ; 
 
 Mountain altars weave a double 
 Chain around it of deep gloom. 
 
 Sunsets leaving golden Lyngvi 
 
 Pass all unregretfully. 
 Waves that, grieving, fold in Lyngvi 
 
 Sing no Benedicite. 
 
 Fateful story of the old doom 
 Yellow bane, desire, and bliss ; 
 
 Mystic glory of the gold broom 
 Every flower an unborn kiss. 
 
 31
 
 Together they sing the love song
 
 LO ! when we break from off this star 
 And find how small we be ; 
 Two atoms in a boundless space 
 And shivering wofully 
 "With memories of our lost fair Earth, 
 I pray you cleave to me. 
 
 I pray you hold my hands to you 
 
 As in these present days 
 When warm with flesh and sealed in love 
 
 We tread the earthly ways ; 
 While all our hopes are bounded by 
 
 Each others' blame and praise. 
 
 If you will hold my hands to you, 
 
 No terror can there be 
 In all the arid wastes of space 
 
 That front us fearfully, 
 When we be cast by blows of time 
 
 Upon eternity. 
 
 33
 
 Tbe lover sails away and the woman is lonely
 
 SET high, the terrace finely hung with dew 
 Shines like an altar over the pale mere ; 
 The valley brims v/ith mist, and thrusting through 
 The wise great foreheads of the trees appear. 
 
 Now all the incense of the pious night 
 Swings in the emerald chalice of this vale ; 
 
 And down the vestments of the first moonlight 
 Flow fast the spilt wines of the nightingale. 
 
 O not a moment of the golden day 
 
 Has power to hurt as this wan midnight hath ; 
 The wended pastures of the fruitful May 
 
 Have mocked my heart with dreams of aftermath. 
 
 Lost moons I watched in long lost burning years, 
 Lost doubts, lost torments, and lost happiness ; 
 
 Lo I midnight makes me miss my very tears 
 Because they fell not in this loneliness. 
 
 35
 
 The lover does not return and the womzn mourns 
 him deeply
 
 ALAS, the days are empty since you went. 
 (Belov'd, you cannot guess hov/ I have strayed) 
 I am adrift, since none will now upbraid 
 The simple sins that made you discantent. 
 
 Alas, of all in you that I have lost 
 Chiefest I miss the girding of your tongue, 
 Which cut and blistered all my soul, and stung 
 
 The tears to birth. 'Twas then you kissed me most 
 
 Alas, come back. All other women know 
 The surface of you. I, who know the worst, 
 Still love so much ; am still— ah God !— accurst 
 
 With hope to kiss your eyes and tell you so. 
 
 37
 
 The fate of the woman fulfils itself and she 
 strives to hate her lover
 
 COME not to me again, dead or alive. 
 You broke me on the wheel, and called it Fate. 
 This little nameless baby shall not shrive, 
 Nor love, nor look upon you, only hate. 
 
 Come not to me again, alive or dead. 
 
 (For, dead, you will not rest you all content.) 
 I will not look upon your grave or shed 
 
 One tear for you. Those tears have all been spent. 
 
 Come not to me again, unless indeed 
 
 The whole world loathe you, and you turn in pain 
 For comfort to this woman (whose lips bleed 
 
 Where once you kissed). Then you shall kiss again. 
 
 39
 
 The great friend hears of her and is sorely grieved
 
 ALAS ! that you had let me serve you, Sweety 
 With loving words and actions beautiful. 
 Alas! that I might track the tired feet 
 And heal their hurt with kisses wonderful. 
 
 I wot that where I seek I shall not find ; 
 
 That all the labour of my days is vain ; 
 That you, so proud when all the world was kind, 
 
 Will be more proud, not less, these days of pain, 
 
 Alas! the sad, strong heart, so brave for woe 
 That did not know true love, when love was near ; 
 
 The weary eyes that haunt me where I go 
 Because they mourn unquenched by any tear. 
 
 41
 
 One day by chance the great friend meets the 
 woman
 
 AH, still ! lie still, sad heart. 
 The past is all forgot; 
 Why weary for the crowd and what it says 
 And oft says not? 
 Lo ! in this press of feet about our feet 
 Let none sweep us asunder, dear, my Sweet, 
 The fates were very kind that let us meet. 
 
 In all the maze of hours 
 
 One hour was only blessed ; 
 That hour that swirled you through the harrying crowds 
 
 Against my breast. 
 See ! I will wipe the dusty lips v/ith wine. 
 And kiss the stain from those poor brows of thine. 
 And none shall sham.e you more, for you are mine. 
 
 43
 
 But the woman will none of bim, and dying 
 broods upon ker child
 
 O MEMORY 
 This is my wonder, my wonder-baby of v/oe ! 
 Of very love that achieved, that begat and 
 forswore ; 
 His birthright of sea-gazing eyes, I love them, and lo ! 
 His hair brave gold like the wind-sifted gold of the 
 shore. 
 
 O memory 
 The hurt at the heart .... ironical gift of the brine, 
 
 Brine of my tears and the bitter great sorrow of me. 
 I pray of the heavens a boon for this baby of mine, 
 Its bloom on his face .... and his heart as great as 
 the heart of the sea. 
 
 45
 
 The woman speaks to 4he lover for the last time
 
 I KNOW you tremble, kneeling at my head, 
 And sobs are shaking you for me— long; dead, 
 I was most quiet in this lonely bed, 
 But you have come, and at your drawing- near 
 My dead heart wakes to something like a sigh 
 Forced painfully, because you once were dear, 
 From ancient channels, long disused and dry. 
 There is no pain like this that stirs me now — 
 This impotent endeavour to express 
 By living sign from dead limbs some reply 
 To the hot tears, that scald me as they drip 
 Slow . . . slowly . . . thro' your hands to my green grave. 
 Go leave me. Once your grief would have been sweet, 
 As I lay here, with very weary feet 
 Turned ever to the dawn I cannot greet ; 
 But now the pain and deep desire for you, 
 For you I loved, — have faded. You have stirred 
 An undesired memory with these tears. 
 
 47
 
 [Some of these poems are re-published by courtesy of the 
 Pall Mall Gazette and Gentlewoman.] 
 
 LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED.
 
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