He should have wed a woman with her feet

So deeply planted in the earthly soil

That she could never soar aloft and beat

Her wings in ecstasy. To him the toil

That plays from dawn to dark its weary role

Comes foremost. In his calloused brain the time

His woman spends to glorify her soul--

To let her hungry, questing spirit climb

To moon-veiled heights--is wasted. If she hears

And answers to the ringing clarion call

Of beauty, he protests, and there appears

His sulphurous, shattering anger. Castles fall...

Her grieving heart gives many a stifled moan

For she must walk her road of years alone.