We may not dine upon the bird
  That fills our home with minstrelsy;
  The living vine may never gird
  Too firm and close the living tree,
  Without sad sacrifice incurred.

  The crystal goblet that we drain
  Will be forever after dry;
  But he who sips, and sips again,
  And leaves it to the open sky,
  Will find it filled with dew and rain.

  The lilies burst, the roses blow
  Into divinest balm and bloom,
  When free above and free below;
  And life and love must have large room,
  That life and love may largest grow.

  So Philip learned (what Mildred saw),
  That love was like a well profound,
  From which two souls had right to draw,
  And in whose waters would be drowned
  The one who took the other’s law.

  VII.

  Ambition was an alien word,
  Which Mildred faintly understood;
  Its poisoned breathing had not blurred
  The whiteness of her womanhood,
  Nor had its blatant trumpet stirred

  To quicker pulse her heart content. 
  In social tasks and home employ,
  She did not question what it meant;
  But bore her woman’s lot with joy
  And sweetness, wheresoe’er she went.

  If ever with unconscious thrill
  It touched her, in some vagrant dream,
  She only wished that God would fill
  With larger tide the goodly stream
  That flowed beside her, strong and still.

  She knew that love was more than fame,
  And happy conscience more than love;—­
  Far off and wild, the wings of flame! 
  Close by, the pinions of the dove
  That hovered white above her name!

  She honored Philip as a man,
  And joyed in his supreme estate;
  But never dreamed that under ban
  She lives who never can be great,
  Or chieftain of a crowd or clan.

  The public eye was like a knife
  That pierced and plagued her shrinking heart. 
  To be a woman, and a wife,
  With privilege to dwell apart,
  And hold unseen her modest life—­

  Alike from praise and blame aloof,
  And free to live and move in peace
  Beneath love’s consecrated roof—­
  Was boon so great she could not cease
  Her thanks for the divine behoof.

  Black turns to brown and blue to blight
  Beneath the blemish of the sun;
  And e’en the spotless robe of white,
  Worn overlong, grows dim and dun
  Through the strange alchemy of light.

  Nor wives nor maidens, weak or brave,
  Can stand and face the public stare,
  And win the plaudits that they crave,
  And stem the hisses that they dare,
  And modest truth and beauty save.

  No woman, in her soul, is she
  Who longs to poise above the roar
  Of motley multitudes, and be
  The idol at whose feet they pour
  The wine of their idolatry.

  Coarse labor makes its doer coarse;
  Great burdens harden softest hands;
  A gentle voice grows harsh and hoarse
  That warns and threatens and commands
  Beyond the measure of its force.