I swore it should not be, it could not be;
No life could so be cleansed,—by wringing thence
The blood that warms the heart; no face made pure
By turning pale the blush of beauty cast
By shadows where sweet love goes in and out.
Love, love should never be a slave, but free.—
“Come, Edith!”—Then I question’d, Would she come?—
Nay, not to my life. Mine must go to hers.
But this, mine could not,—could do nothing there;—
And would not!—Whence then sprang my call to her?—
If not from reason, from my wish, forsooth.—
My wish for what?—for her?—as now she was?—
Not so; but rather might be.—Whence then sprang
This ‘might be’?—whence, alas, but from myself,
As I kept moulding it within my soul?
Why rail’d I, then, against the church and world?—
Not these alone, but I would have her changed.
These all but echoed back my own soul’s voice;
And yet, augmented by the voice of all,
In heeding them, I heeded not myself,
But something greater, grander than myself.
For if a single man may image God,
Then many men who join their partial gifts
And parted wisdom,—till the whole become
Not merely human but humanity’s,—
May watch our ways and keep them circumspect
With eyes that often wellnigh stand for His
Who still more fully in mankind than man
Rules over truth in each through truth in all.
Why term me slave, then, when I serve my kind?—
Through serving it, I best may serve, as well,
My godlier self!—Let general thought take shape;
What better can incarnate sovereignty?
What stir to nobler dreams or grander deeds?
The soul in reverence may kneel to it,
Yield all to it.—So may my neighbors reign,
And I may be their slave, yet own myself;
And deify, while I defy my pride!