Any sort of woman may bestow
Her atom on the star, or clod she counts for such,--
Each little making less bigger by just that much.
Women grow you, while men depend on you at best.

_Fifine at the Fair._


Woman, and will you cast
For a word, quite off at last
Me your own, your You,--
Love, if you knew the light
That your soul casts in my sight,
How I look to you
For the pure and true,
And the beauteous and the right,--
Bear with a moment's spite
When a mere mote threats the white!

_A Lover's Quarrel._


Love, you did give all I asked, I think--
More than I merit, yes, by many times.
And perfect eyes, and more than perfect mouth,
But had you--oh, with the same perfect brow,
And the low voice my soul hears, as a bird
The fowler's pipe, and follows to the snare--
Had you, with these the same, but brought a mind!
Some women do so. Had the mouth there urged,