Page:Poems by Frances Fuller Victor.djvu/20

 Of our blind woman-wrath, broke forth

In stinging hail of sharp-edged ice,

As freezing as the polar north.

Yet maddening. O, the poor mean vice

We women have been taught to call

By virtue's name: the holy scorn

We feel for lovers left love-lorn

By our own coldness, or by the wall

Of other love twixt them and us;

The tempest past, I paused. He stood

Silent,—and yet "Ungenerous!"

Was hurled back, plainer than ere could

His lips have said it, by his eyes

Fire-flashing, and his pale, set face,

Beautiful and unmarred by trace

Of aught save pain and pained surprise.

I quailed at last before that gaze,

And even faintly owned my wrong;

I said, "I spoke in such amaze

I could not choose words that belong

To such occasions." Here he smiled,

To cover one low, quick-drawn sigh:

"June even disturb us differently,"

He said, at length; "and I, beguiled

By something in the air did do

My lady Maud unmeant offense; 14