A FACE.
We have knownOf many a man whose features were not carvedBy his own soul to their high nobleness,But handed down by some far ancestor.Strange, that a man a generation longShould do good deeds that mould his generous lipsTo noble curves, and then should die and leaveHis son the curves without the nobleness.We’ve known of many a woman, many a man,Whose own soul leaped in passionate high flames;But locked behind the fatal prison barsOf cold ancestral dignity of face,No glimmer of the light and warmth withinCreeps to the surface.But this face of hersIs not a face like those we’ve analyzed;True to its wearer, it is justly proudWith her own pride and not her ancestors.Were you to chide her gently for some fault,Or promise that whatever grand mistakesHer woman’s impulses might lead her to,You would judge all with Christian charity,Tis not impossible that she would say,“Sir, I make no mistakes; I have no faults;I thank you, but I need no charity!”Well, what of that? I would that there were moreOf us, who, bidden to confess our sins,Could say Job’s litany: “May God forbidThat you be justified! my righteousnessWill I hold fast and will not let it go;My heart shall not reproach me while I live!”Humility’s a grace at thirty-nine,But scarce a virtue in the very young,Who bend to us from fear, not reverence.Nor truly humble is the violetThat keeps its face quite upturned to the sunAnd would grow higher if it could; it cannot.Better for our young friend the haughtinessOf strong white lilies that refuse to bloomNear the dark earth they rose from; eagerlyThey push aside the lazy weeds that hideThe upper air; and keeping in their breastsThe fair white secret of their blossoming,Rise to the heaven they worship. Suddenly,Awed at the vast immensity of lightThat wraps the earth as with a garment; awedBy the deep silence of that upper air,They bend their stately heads, to breathe to earthA murmured penitence for olden pride.The fair white bells they kept so jealouslyLifted to heaven, now they overturn,And let the cherished fragrance of their soulsSwing censer-like upon the general air.You’ll look at it again?No, I have put it back; it’s not a faceI like to argue over with a friend.It is a woman’s face; and what is more,A face I care for!
We have knownOf many a man whose features were not carvedBy his own soul to their high nobleness,But handed down by some far ancestor.Strange, that a man a generation longShould do good deeds that mould his generous lipsTo noble curves, and then should die and leaveHis son the curves without the nobleness.We’ve known of many a woman, many a man,Whose own soul leaped in passionate high flames;But locked behind the fatal prison barsOf cold ancestral dignity of face,No glimmer of the light and warmth withinCreeps to the surface.But this face of hersIs not a face like those we’ve analyzed;True to its wearer, it is justly proudWith her own pride and not her ancestors.Were you to chide her gently for some fault,Or promise that whatever grand mistakesHer woman’s impulses might lead her to,You would judge all with Christian charity,Tis not impossible that she would say,“Sir, I make no mistakes; I have no faults;I thank you, but I need no charity!”Well, what of that? I would that there were moreOf us, who, bidden to confess our sins,Could say Job’s litany: “May God forbidThat you be justified! my righteousnessWill I hold fast and will not let it go;My heart shall not reproach me while I live!”Humility’s a grace at thirty-nine,But scarce a virtue in the very young,Who bend to us from fear, not reverence.Nor truly humble is the violetThat keeps its face quite upturned to the sunAnd would grow higher if it could; it cannot.Better for our young friend the haughtinessOf strong white lilies that refuse to bloomNear the dark earth they rose from; eagerlyThey push aside the lazy weeds that hideThe upper air; and keeping in their breastsThe fair white secret of their blossoming,Rise to the heaven they worship. Suddenly,Awed at the vast immensity of lightThat wraps the earth as with a garment; awedBy the deep silence of that upper air,They bend their stately heads, to breathe to earthA murmured penitence for olden pride.The fair white bells they kept so jealouslyLifted to heaven, now they overturn,And let the cherished fragrance of their soulsSwing censer-like upon the general air.You’ll look at it again?No, I have put it back; it’s not a faceI like to argue over with a friend.It is a woman’s face; and what is more,A face I care for!
We have knownOf many a man whose features were not carvedBy his own soul to their high nobleness,But handed down by some far ancestor.Strange, that a man a generation longShould do good deeds that mould his generous lipsTo noble curves, and then should die and leaveHis son the curves without the nobleness.We’ve known of many a woman, many a man,Whose own soul leaped in passionate high flames;But locked behind the fatal prison barsOf cold ancestral dignity of face,No glimmer of the light and warmth withinCreeps to the surface.
We have known
Of many a man whose features were not carved
By his own soul to their high nobleness,
But handed down by some far ancestor.
Strange, that a man a generation long
Should do good deeds that mould his generous lips
To noble curves, and then should die and leave
His son the curves without the nobleness.
We’ve known of many a woman, many a man,
Whose own soul leaped in passionate high flames;
But locked behind the fatal prison bars
Of cold ancestral dignity of face,
No glimmer of the light and warmth within
Creeps to the surface.
But this face of hersIs not a face like those we’ve analyzed;True to its wearer, it is justly proudWith her own pride and not her ancestors.Were you to chide her gently for some fault,Or promise that whatever grand mistakesHer woman’s impulses might lead her to,You would judge all with Christian charity,Tis not impossible that she would say,“Sir, I make no mistakes; I have no faults;I thank you, but I need no charity!”Well, what of that? I would that there were moreOf us, who, bidden to confess our sins,Could say Job’s litany: “May God forbidThat you be justified! my righteousnessWill I hold fast and will not let it go;My heart shall not reproach me while I live!”Humility’s a grace at thirty-nine,But scarce a virtue in the very young,Who bend to us from fear, not reverence.Nor truly humble is the violetThat keeps its face quite upturned to the sunAnd would grow higher if it could; it cannot.Better for our young friend the haughtinessOf strong white lilies that refuse to bloomNear the dark earth they rose from; eagerlyThey push aside the lazy weeds that hideThe upper air; and keeping in their breastsThe fair white secret of their blossoming,Rise to the heaven they worship. Suddenly,Awed at the vast immensity of lightThat wraps the earth as with a garment; awedBy the deep silence of that upper air,They bend their stately heads, to breathe to earthA murmured penitence for olden pride.The fair white bells they kept so jealouslyLifted to heaven, now they overturn,And let the cherished fragrance of their soulsSwing censer-like upon the general air.
But this face of hers
Is not a face like those we’ve analyzed;
True to its wearer, it is justly proud
With her own pride and not her ancestors.
Were you to chide her gently for some fault,
Or promise that whatever grand mistakes
Her woman’s impulses might lead her to,
You would judge all with Christian charity,
Tis not impossible that she would say,
“Sir, I make no mistakes; I have no faults;
I thank you, but I need no charity!”
Well, what of that? I would that there were more
Of us, who, bidden to confess our sins,
Could say Job’s litany: “May God forbid
That you be justified! my righteousness
Will I hold fast and will not let it go;
My heart shall not reproach me while I live!”
Humility’s a grace at thirty-nine,
But scarce a virtue in the very young,
Who bend to us from fear, not reverence.
Nor truly humble is the violet
That keeps its face quite upturned to the sun
And would grow higher if it could; it cannot.
Better for our young friend the haughtiness
Of strong white lilies that refuse to bloom
Near the dark earth they rose from; eagerly
They push aside the lazy weeds that hide
The upper air; and keeping in their breasts
The fair white secret of their blossoming,
Rise to the heaven they worship. Suddenly,
Awed at the vast immensity of light
That wraps the earth as with a garment; awed
By the deep silence of that upper air,
They bend their stately heads, to breathe to earth
A murmured penitence for olden pride.
The fair white bells they kept so jealously
Lifted to heaven, now they overturn,
And let the cherished fragrance of their souls
Swing censer-like upon the general air.
You’ll look at it again?No, I have put it back; it’s not a faceI like to argue over with a friend.It is a woman’s face; and what is more,A face I care for!
You’ll look at it again?
No, I have put it back; it’s not a face
I like to argue over with a friend.
It is a woman’s face; and what is more,
A face I care for!