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- A PRAYER FOR MY DAUGHTER
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- ONCE more the storm is howling, and half hid
- Under this cradle-hood and coverlid
- My child sleeps on. There is no obstacle
- But Gregory's wood and one bare hill
- Whereby the haystack- and roof-levelling wind.
- Bred on the Atlantic, can be stayed;
- And for an hour I have walked and prayed
- Because of the great gloom that is in my mind.
- I have walked and prayed for this young child an hour
- And heard the sea-wind scream upon the tower,
- And-under the arches of the bridge, and scream
- In the elms above the flooded stream;
- Imagining in excited reverie
- That the future years had come,
- Dancing to a frenzied drum,
- Out of the murderous innocence of the sea.
- May she be granted beauty and yet not
- Beauty to make a stranger's eye distraught,
- Or hers before a looking-glass, for such,
- Being made beautiful overmuch,
- Consider beauty a sufficient end,
- Lose natural kindness and maybe
- The heart-revealing intimacy
- That chooses right, and never find a friend.
- Helen being chosen found life flat and dull
- And later had much trouble from a fool,
- While that great Queen, that rose out of the spray,
- Being fatherless could have her way
- Yet chose a bandy-legged smith for man.
- It's certain that fine women eat
- A crazy salad with their meat
- Whereby the Horn of plenty is undone.
- In courtesy I'd have her chiefly learned;
- Hearts are not had as a gift but hearts are earned
- By those that are not entirely beautiful;
- Yet many, that have played the fool
- For beauty's very self, has charm made wisc.
- And many a poor man that has roved,
- Loved and thought himself beloved,
- From a glad kindness cannot take his eyes.
- May she become a flourishing hidden tree
- That all her thoughts may like the linnet be,
- And have no business but dispensing round
- Their magnanimities of sound,
- Nor but in merriment begin a chase,
- Nor but in merriment a quarrel.
- O may she live like some green laurel
- Rooted in one dear perpetual place.
- My mind, because the minds that I have loved,
- The sort of beauty that I have approved,
- Prosper but little, has dried up of late,
- Yet knows that to be choked with hate
- May well be of all evil chances chief.
- If there's no hatred in a mind
- Assault and battery of the wind
- Can never tear the linnet from the leaf.
- An intellectual hatred is the worst,
- So let her think opinions are accursed.
- Have I not seen the loveliest woman born
- Out of the mouth of plenty's horn,
- Because of her opinionated mind
- Barter that horn and every good
- By quiet natures understood
- For an old bellows full of angry wind?
- Considering that, all hatred driven hence,
- The soul recovers radical innocence
- And learns at last that it is self-delighting,
- Self-appeasing, self-affrighting,
- And that its own sweet will is Heaven's will;
- She can, though every face should scowl
- And every windy quarter howl
- Or every bellows burst, be happy Still.
- And may her bridegroom bring her to a house
- Where all's accustomed, ceremonious;
- For arrogance and hatred are the wares
- Peddled in the thoroughfares.
- How but in custom and in ceremony
- Are innocence and beauty born?
- Ceremony's a name for the rich horn,
- And custom for the spreading laurel tree.
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