"No doubt we seem a kind of monster to you; 260 We are used to that: for women, up till this

Cramp'd under worse than South-sea-isle taboo,
Dwarfs of the gynæceum, fail so far

In high desire, they know not, cannot guess
How much their welfare is a passion to us.
265 If we could give them surer, quicker proof –
Oh, if our end were less achievable

By slow approaches than by single act
Of immolation, any phase of death,

We were as prompt to spring against the pikes
270 Or down the fiery gulf as talk of it,
To compass our dear sisters' liberties."

She bow'd as if to veil a noble tear;
And up we came to where the river sloped

To plunge in cataract, shattering on black blocks
275 A breadth of thunder. O'er it shook the woods,
And danced the colour, and, below, stuck out
The bones of some vast bulk that lived and roar'd

Before man was. She gazed awhile and said,
"As these rude bones to us, are we to her

280 That will be." "Dare we dream of that," I ask'd,
"Which wrought us, as the workman and his work,
That practice betters?" "How," she cried, "you love
The metaphysics! read and earn our prize,

A golden brooch: beneath an emerald plane

285 Sits Diotima, teaching him that died.

Of hemlock; our device; wrought to the life;
She rapt upon her subject, he on her:

For there are schools for all." "And yet," I said,
"Methinks I have not found among them all
290 One anatomic." "Nay, we thought of that,"
She answer'd, "but it pleased us not: in truth
We shudder but to dream our maids should ape

Those monstrous males that carve the living hound,
And cram him with the fragments of the grave,
295 Or in the dark dissolving human heart,
And holy secrets of this microcosm,

Dabbling a shameless hand with shameful jest,
Encarnalize their spirits: yet we know

Knowledge is knowledge, and this matter hangs. 300 Howbeit ourself, foreseeing casualty,

Nor willing men should come among us, learnt,
For many weary moons before we came,

This craft of healing.
Would tend upon you.

Were you sick, ourself

To your question now,

305 Which touches on the workman and his work.

Let there be light and there was light: 'tis so:
For was, and is, and will be, are but is;

And all creation is one act at once,

The birth of light: but we that are not all,

310 As parts, can see but parts, now this, now that,

And live, perforce, from thought to thought, and make

One act a phantom of succession: thus

Our weakness somehow shapes the shadow, Time;
But in the shadow will we work, and mold

315 The woman to the fuller day." She spake,
With kindled eyes: we rode a league beyond,
And, o'er a bridge of pinewood crossing, came
On flowery levels underneath the crag,
Full of all beauty. "Oh, how sweet,” I said
320 (For I was half-oblivious of my mask),

"Yea,"

"To linger here with one that loved us.' She answer'd, "or with fair philosophies That lift the fancy; for indeed these fields Are lovely, lovelier not the Elysian lawns, 325 Where paced the Demigods of old, and saw The soft white vapour streak the crownèd towers Built to the Sun:" then, turning to her maids,

"Pitch our pavilion here upon the sward;

Lay out the viands." At the word, they raised 330 A tent of satin, elaborately wrought

With fair Corinna's triumph; here she stood,
Engirt with many a florid maiden-cheek,

The woman-conqueror; woman-conquer'd there
The bearded victor of ten thousand hymns,
335 And all the men mourn'd at his side: but we
Set forth to climb; then, climbing, Cyril kept
With Psyche, with Melissa Florian, I

With mine affianced. Many a little hand Glanced like a touch of sunshine on the rocks, 340 Many a light foot shone like a jewel set

In the dark crag: and then we turn'd, we wound About the cliffs, the copses, out and in, Hammering and clinking, chattering stony names Of shale and hornblende, rag and trap and tuff, 345 Amygdaloid and trachyte, till the Sun

Grew broader toward his death and fell, and all
The rosy heights came out above the lawns.

The spendour falls on castle walls

And snowy summits old in story:
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.

Blow, bugle, blow; set the wild echoes flying;
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying!

Oh hark, oh hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
Oh sweet and far from cliff and scar

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!

Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying!

O love! they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river:
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,

And grow for ever and for ever.

Blow, bugle, blow; set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying!