Woman’s Way 

Back beyond memory’s finding, where floweth the broad

            Ho-ang-ho,

Back of the mists of the ages, where the mind of a man

            may not go,

There dwelt a beautiful maiden who gazed on her face

            in the tide;

Gazed at it, laughed to it, wondered! gazed on herself

            wonder-eyed.

“Lo!” said the maid, “I am fairer—fairer than lilies at

            dusk!

Sweeter my breath than the lilies! my tresses are sweeter

            than musk!

Smoother my shoulders and fairer than gods of the

            temple are fair;

Brighter my eyes are and rarer then gems of Goleonda

            are rare!

Round are my breasts as twin goblets a-brim with the

            whitest of snows!

Aye, I am graceful and curving, down from my head to

            my toes!

He would dare to gaze on me, he who hath courage

            to woo,

Shall eat out his heart in the gazing! shall bind up his brow

            with the rue!

Where is the mortal may win me?  Who hath the heart

            to aspire?

Him!  May his passion consume him!  His soul shrivel

            black in the fire!

I?  With the form of an angel, have I the soul of a bawd,

That I should lie down with a mortal?  I will be wooed

            by a god!

So have I spake, and my saying none but the gods shall

            gainsay!”

                                                            Soon came a mortal her way:

He but a dreamer, a minstrel, seeking a theme for his

            song;

Long gazed the youth on the maiden, drank of her sym-

            metry long;

Unslung his harp from his shoulder—softly the music

            ‘gan creep,

Soft as a brocaded ribbon, broad as the river and deep!

Plaintive and sweet in its pleading, telling of love and

            its need;

Praying that though all unworthy yet might the maiden

give heed!

But, all unheeded, the singer, forgot in the song that

            he sings,

Gives up his life in his wooing, beats out his soul on

            the strings!

Next came a hoarder of riches; wondrous the treasures

            he bore!

Shawis stiff with richness, and priceless! rubies as ruddy

            as gore!

Naught spake the miser of loving; he, the apostle of gold,

Spread out his gems for her choosing, spoke of his wealth

            manifold!

Sudden she slipped her kimona and, standing before him

            all bare,

Mocked, “Have you got midst your baubles a gem or a

            carving so fair?”

Touched to his miserly heartstrings, mocked in the gold

            of his pride,

He gazed on a gem that was priceless, wailed his impo-

            tence and died.

And next came a wearer of weapons, a chieftain grown

            famous in war,

With the mien of a Jove or an Odin!  The sinews

            and thews of a Thor!

But the maid met his loving with laughter!  laughed

            down his fierce pleadings outpoured!

Till, conquered, his soul beat for freedom!  He opened

            its way with his sword!

And then, to the banks of the river, came one—a poor

            shepherd of flocks;

All ragged and scant was his tunic, all matted and

            tangled his locks;

And small heed gave he to the maiden; he formed him

            a flute from a reed,

And his music ran clear of the mountain, of crags where

            the wild chamois feed;

And piqued by his lack of attention the maid went away

            from his side

And wept in her pique and her anger; and only his

            pipings replied.

Then crept she back to the player, the pride of her

            beauty all gone,

And timid she plucked at his mantle; he pushed her

            aside and played on!

“It was strange that a shepherd while minding his

            flocks by the broad Ho-ang-ho,

And playing the tunes of his fancy, such strange inter-

            ruptions should know!”

He scowled; tossed his pipe in the river, but, e’er he had

            turned from the place,

He looked his full scorn on the maiden; his palm left

            its mark on her face!

The man was a boor!  Never singer such act may ennoble

            or laud!

But the arms of the maiden enwrapped him! she kissed

            him and called him her god!

“The moral?”  ‘Tis told in the telling.  Its meaning

            is succinct and clear,

And scarcely will bear the repeating.  That man who

            hath ears let him hear.

Lilts O Love Table Of Contents