Page:Poet Lore, volume 34, 1923.djvu/648

 In her he loves, he seeks the beauties rare Of his celestial vision, and in her The presentment of face and form and voice Of that fair goddess who, in raptured love, He seems to clasp with her in his embrace. Then it is not the woman, but the dream, Even in his arms, he worships and desires; And when at length he sees the error made, The substitute imposed, he is enraged And oft unjustly blames her for his woe. For to that lofty plane of sentiment The female nature seldom can attain; And that which her own loveliness inspires In generous lovers, woman cannot know, Nor can she understand. Those narrower brows Cannot conceive ideals of equal height. The man, deluded, forges in the fire Of her bright eyes, vain hopes; he seeks in her Profound emotions, superhuman loves, In one who is by very nature set Inferior to the male, yea, in all things: For, as her limbs are soft and frail, her mind Has likewise less capacity and strength.

Nor couldst thou ever know, Aspasia, The lofty thoughts that once thou didst inspire Within my soul. Thou couldst not comprehend What boundless love, what agonies intense, What frenzied motives, what delirium Thou didst arouse in me; nor wilt the time E'er come when thou canst understand. And so The skilled musician often wotteth not The feelings that with hand or voice he wakes In him who hears. Now that Aspasia Whom I so loved, is dead. For ever still Is she who was the motive of my life, Save only when she comes, now and again, Beloved phantom! and soon vanishes. Thou livest yet, not only beautiful, But to my mind surpassing all the world In loveliness. But squandered is the fire That once thou woke in me; for thee, indeed,