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.