“There was a ripe round long black toothsome fruit,
“Even a flower-fig, the prime boast of May:
“And, to the tree, said … either the spirit o’ the fig,
“Or, if we bring in men, the gardener,
“Archbishop of the orchard—had I time
“To try o’ the two which fits in best: indeed
“It might be the Creator’s self, but then
“The tree should bear an apple, I suppose,—
“Well, anyhow, one with authority said (830)
“ ‘Ripe fig, burst skin, regale the fig-pecker—
“ ‘The bird whereof thou art a perquisite!’
“ ‘Nay,’ with a flounce, replied the restif fig,
“ ‘I much prefer to keep my pulp myself:
“ ‘He may go breakfastless and dinnerless,
“ ‘Supperless of one crimson seed, for me!’
“So, back she flopped into her bunch of leaves.
“He flew off, left her,—did the natural lord,—
“And lo, three hundred thousand bees and wasps
“Found her out, feasted on her to the shuck: (840)
“Such gain the fig’s that gave its bird no bite!
“The moral,—fools elude their proper lot,
“Tempt other fools, get ruined all alike.
“Therefore go home, embrace your husband quick!
“Which if his Canon brother chance to see,
“He will the sooner back to book again.”
So, I had proof the Archbishop was just man,
And hardly that, and certainly no more.
For, miserable consequence to me, (850)
My husband’s hatred waxed nor waned at all,
His brother’s boldness grew effrontery soon,
And my last stay and comfort in myself
Was forced from me: henceforth I looked to God
Only, nor cared my desecrated soul
Should have fair walls, gay windows for the world.
God’s glimmer, that came through the ruin-top,
Was witness why all lights were quenched inside:
Henceforth I asked God counsel, not mankind.
They said—“No care to save appearance here!
“How cynic,—when, how wanton, were enough!”
—Adding, it all came of my mother’s life—
My own real mother, whom I never knew,
Who did wrong (if she needs must have done wrong)
Through being all her life, not my four years,
At mercy of the hateful,—every beast
O’ the field was wont to break that fountain-fence,
Trample the silver into mud so murk
Heaven could not find itself reflected there,— (870)
Now they cry “Out on her, who, plashy pool,
“Bequeathed turbidity and bitterness
“To the daughter-stream where Guido dipt and drank!”
The rather do I understand her now,—
From my experience of what hate calls love,—
Much love might be in what their love called hate.
If she sold … what they call, sold … me her child—
I shall believe she hoped in her poor heart
That I at least might try be good and pure, (880)
Begin to live untempted, not go doomed
And done with ere once found in fault, as she.
Oh and, my mother, it all came to this?
Why should I trust those that speak ill of you,
When I mistrust who speaks even well of them?
Why, since all bound to do me good, did harm,
May not you, seeming as you harmed me most,
Have meant to do most good—and feed your child
From bramble-bush, whom not one orchard-tree
But drew-back bough from, nor let one fruit fall? (890)
This it was for you sacrificed your babe?
Gained just this, giving your heart’s hope away
As I might give mine, loving it as you,
If … but that never could be asked of me!
Again the knowledge that my babe was, is,
Will be mine only. Him, by death, I give
Outright to God, without a further care,—
But not to any parent in the world,—
So to be safe: why is it we repine? (900)
What guardianship were safer could we choose?
All human plans and projects come to nought,
My life, and what I know of other lives,
Prove that: no plan nor project! God shall care!
All of you,—Oh yes, patient this long while
Listening, and understanding, I am sure!
Four days ago, when I was sound and well
And like to live, no one would understand.
People were kind, but smiled “And what of him, (910)
“Your friend, whose tonsure, the rich dark-brown hides?
“There, there!—your lover, do we dream he was?
“A priest too—never were such naughtiness!
“Still, he thinks many a long think, never fear,
“After the shy pale lady,—lay so light
“For a moment in his arms, the lucky one!”
And so on: wherefore should I blame you much?
So we are made, such difference in minds,
Such difference too in eyes that see the minds!
That man, you misinterpret and misprise— (920)
The glory of his nature, I had thought,
Shot itself out in white light, blazed the truth
Through every atom of his act with me:
Yet where I point you, through the chrystal shrine,
Purity in quintessence, one dew-drop,
You all
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