I Am Woman

Marguerite Swawite

I am woman:Old as Lebanon cedars—and far older;Young as the freshest green shootThat peeps through the snow in the March time.My face is turned to the EastPink with the dawn of my promise;My hands are clutched from behindBy the fettering fingers of her who was woman alone,Molded and spurred by desire,Knowing only the needOf a kiss for the cup of her throat,Of a child for the curve of her arm.To-day I am woman,Less—yet a little more;For I am learning to singNot his, nor another’s, but mine own song,That has lain in my heart since the first day.A great golden song it shall beThough not always soft with sweet cadence,For I must travail to sing:I am learningTo feed upon nothing, yet fill me;To warm my chill limbs without fire;To go on my way, without kiss, without child,Though my lip is red, my arm willing.Yet I know I shall never ceaseTill I have sung it all—All to the very last note.Still I shall be womanIn all the long days to comeThat beckon to me in the pink dawn;My song shall grow sweetly familiar,And he who was frightened shall draw nearSinging his separate song,Ever his own and yet blendingIts virile strains with mine;So we shall raise a great harmonyEnfolding the world in our music,Rejoicing again in our marriage.One day that shall be ....But to-dayI am weary—The East is rosy with promise of dawn.

I am woman:

Old as Lebanon cedars—and far older;

Young as the freshest green shoot

That peeps through the snow in the March time.

My face is turned to the East

Pink with the dawn of my promise;

My hands are clutched from behind

By the fettering fingers of her who was woman alone,

Molded and spurred by desire,

Knowing only the need

Of a kiss for the cup of her throat,

Of a child for the curve of her arm.

To-day I am woman,Less—yet a little more;For I am learning to singNot his, nor another’s, but mine own song,That has lain in my heart since the first day.A great golden song it shall beThough not always soft with sweet cadence,For I must travail to sing:I am learningTo feed upon nothing, yet fill me;To warm my chill limbs without fire;To go on my way, without kiss, without child,Though my lip is red, my arm willing.Yet I know I shall never ceaseTill I have sung it all—All to the very last note.

To-day I am woman,

Less—yet a little more;

For I am learning to sing

Not his, nor another’s, but mine own song,

That has lain in my heart since the first day.

A great golden song it shall be

Though not always soft with sweet cadence,

For I must travail to sing:

I am learning

To feed upon nothing, yet fill me;

To warm my chill limbs without fire;

To go on my way, without kiss, without child,

Though my lip is red, my arm willing.

Yet I know I shall never cease

Till I have sung it all—

All to the very last note.

Still I shall be womanIn all the long days to comeThat beckon to me in the pink dawn;My song shall grow sweetly familiar,And he who was frightened shall draw nearSinging his separate song,Ever his own and yet blendingIts virile strains with mine;So we shall raise a great harmonyEnfolding the world in our music,Rejoicing again in our marriage.

Still I shall be woman

In all the long days to come

That beckon to me in the pink dawn;

My song shall grow sweetly familiar,

And he who was frightened shall draw near

Singing his separate song,

Ever his own and yet blending

Its virile strains with mine;

So we shall raise a great harmony

Enfolding the world in our music,

Rejoicing again in our marriage.

One day that shall be ....But to-dayI am weary—The East is rosy with promise of dawn.

One day that shall be ....

But to-day

I am weary—

The East is rosy with promise of dawn.

(The following is one of the poems in Edgar Lee Master’s “Spoon River Anthology” which has been running in Reedy’s St. Louis Mirror and attracting such wide-spread attention. In our opinion it is in the first ranks of fine poetry.)Caroline BransonWith our hearts like drifting suns, had we but walkedAs often before the April fields till star-lightSilkened over with viewless gauze the darknessUnder the rock, ourtrysting place in the wood,Where the brook turns! Had we but passed from wooingLike notes of music that run together, into winningIn the inspired improvisation of love!But to put back of us as a canticle endedThe rapt enchantment of the flesh,In which our souls swooned, down, down,Where time was not, nor space, nor ourselves—Annihilated in love!To leave these behind for a room with lamps;And to stand with our Secret mocking itself,And hiding itself amid flowers and mandolins,Stared at by all between salad and coffee.And to see him tremble, and feel myselfPrescient, as one who signs a bond—Not flaming with gifts and pledges heapedWith rosy hands over his brow.And then, O night! deliberate! unlovely!With all of our wooing blotted out by the winningIn a chosen room in an hour that was known to all.Next day he sat so listless, almost cold,So strangely changed, wondering why I wept,Till a kind of sick despair and voluptuous madnessSeized us to make the pact of death.A stalk of the earth sphere,Frail as star-light,Waiting to be drawn once againInto creation’s stream.But next time to be given birthGazed at by Raphael and St. FrancisSometimes as they pass.For I am their little brother,To be known clearly face to faceThrough a cycle of birth hereafter run.You may know the seed and the soil;You may feel the cold rain fall.But only the earth-sphere, only heavenKnows the secret of the seedIn the nuptial chamber under the soil.Throw me into the stream again,Give me another trial—Save me, Shelley!

With our hearts like drifting suns, had we but walkedAs often before the April fields till star-lightSilkened over with viewless gauze the darknessUnder the rock, ourtrysting place in the wood,Where the brook turns! Had we but passed from wooingLike notes of music that run together, into winningIn the inspired improvisation of love!But to put back of us as a canticle endedThe rapt enchantment of the flesh,In which our souls swooned, down, down,Where time was not, nor space, nor ourselves—Annihilated in love!To leave these behind for a room with lamps;And to stand with our Secret mocking itself,And hiding itself amid flowers and mandolins,Stared at by all between salad and coffee.And to see him tremble, and feel myselfPrescient, as one who signs a bond—Not flaming with gifts and pledges heapedWith rosy hands over his brow.And then, O night! deliberate! unlovely!With all of our wooing blotted out by the winningIn a chosen room in an hour that was known to all.Next day he sat so listless, almost cold,So strangely changed, wondering why I wept,Till a kind of sick despair and voluptuous madnessSeized us to make the pact of death.A stalk of the earth sphere,Frail as star-light,Waiting to be drawn once againInto creation’s stream.But next time to be given birthGazed at by Raphael and St. FrancisSometimes as they pass.For I am their little brother,To be known clearly face to faceThrough a cycle of birth hereafter run.You may know the seed and the soil;You may feel the cold rain fall.But only the earth-sphere, only heavenKnows the secret of the seedIn the nuptial chamber under the soil.Throw me into the stream again,Give me another trial—Save me, Shelley!

With our hearts like drifting suns, had we but walked

As often before the April fields till star-light

Silkened over with viewless gauze the darkness

Under the rock, ourtrysting place in the wood,

Where the brook turns! Had we but passed from wooing

Like notes of music that run together, into winning

In the inspired improvisation of love!

But to put back of us as a canticle ended

The rapt enchantment of the flesh,

In which our souls swooned, down, down,

Where time was not, nor space, nor ourselves—

Annihilated in love!

To leave these behind for a room with lamps;

And to stand with our Secret mocking itself,

And hiding itself amid flowers and mandolins,

Stared at by all between salad and coffee.

And to see him tremble, and feel myself

Prescient, as one who signs a bond—

Not flaming with gifts and pledges heaped

With rosy hands over his brow.

And then, O night! deliberate! unlovely!

With all of our wooing blotted out by the winning

In a chosen room in an hour that was known to all.

Next day he sat so listless, almost cold,

So strangely changed, wondering why I wept,

Till a kind of sick despair and voluptuous madness

Seized us to make the pact of death.

A stalk of the earth sphere,Frail as star-light,Waiting to be drawn once againInto creation’s stream.But next time to be given birthGazed at by Raphael and St. FrancisSometimes as they pass.For I am their little brother,To be known clearly face to faceThrough a cycle of birth hereafter run.You may know the seed and the soil;You may feel the cold rain fall.But only the earth-sphere, only heavenKnows the secret of the seedIn the nuptial chamber under the soil.Throw me into the stream again,Give me another trial—Save me, Shelley!

A stalk of the earth sphere,

Frail as star-light,

Waiting to be drawn once again

Into creation’s stream.

But next time to be given birth

Gazed at by Raphael and St. Francis

Sometimes as they pass.

For I am their little brother,

To be known clearly face to face

Through a cycle of birth hereafter run.

You may know the seed and the soil;

You may feel the cold rain fall.

But only the earth-sphere, only heaven

Knows the secret of the seed

In the nuptial chamber under the soil.

Throw me into the stream again,

Give me another trial—

Save me, Shelley!

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