Once
more
the
storm
is
howling,
and
half
hid
Under
this
cradle-hood
and
coverlid
My
child
sleeps
on.
There
is
no
obstacle
But
Gregory's
Wood
and
one
bare
hill
Whereby
the
haystack
and
roof-levelling
wind,
Bred
on
the
Atlantic,
can
be
stayed;
And
for
an
hour
I
have
walked
and
prayed
Because
of
the
great
gloom
that
is
in
my
mind.
I
have
walked
and
prayed
for
this
young
child
an
hour,
And
heard
the
sea-wind
scream
upon
the
tower,
And
under
the
arches
of
the
bridge,
and
scream
In
the
elms
above
the
flooded
stream;
Imagining
in
excited
reverie
That
the
future
years
had
come
Dancing
to
a
frenzied
drum
Out
of
the
murderous
innocence
of
the
sea.
May
she
be
granted
beauty,
and
yet
not
Beauty
to
make
a
stranger's
eye
distraught,
Or
hers
before
a
looking-glass;
for
such,
Being
made
beautiful
overmuch,
Consider
beauty
a
sufficient
end,
Lose
natural
kindness,
and
maybe
The
heart-revealing
intimacy
That
chooses
right,
and
never
find
a
friend.
Helen,
being
chosen,
found
life
flat
and
dull,
And
later
had
much
trouble
from
a
fool;
While
that
great
Queen
that
rose
out
of
the
spray,
Being
fatherless,
could
have
her
way,
Yet
chose
a
bandy-leggèd
smith
for
man.
It's
certain
that
fine
women
eat
A
crazy
salad
with
their
meat
Whereby
the
Horn
of
Plenty
is
undone.
In
courtesy
I'd
have
her
chiefly
learned;
Hearts
are
not
had
as
a
gift,
but
hearts
are
earned
By
those
that
are
not
entirely
beautiful.
Yet
many,
that
have
played
the
fool
For
beauty's
very
self,
has
charm
made
wise;
And
many
a
poor
man
that
has
roved,
Loved
and
thought
himself
beloved,
From
a
glad
kindness
cannot
take
his
eyes.
May
she
become
a
flourishing
hidden
tree,
That
all
her
thoughts
may
like
the
linnet
be,
And
have
no
business
but
dispensing
round
Their
magnanimities
of
sound;
Nor
but
in
merriment
begin
a
chase,
Nor
but
in
merriment
a
quarrel.
Oh,
may
she
live
like
some
green
laurel
Rooted
in
one
dear
perpetual
place.
My
mind,
because
the
minds
that
I
have
loved,
The
sort
of
beauty
that
I
have
approved,
Prosper
but
little,
has
dried
up
of
late,
Yet
knows
that
to
be
choked
with
hate
May
well
be
of
all
evil
chances
chief.
If
there's
no
hatred
in
a
mind
Assault
and
battery
of
the
wind
Can
never
tear
the
linnet
from
the
leaf.
An
intellectual
hatred
is
the
worst,
So
let
her
think
opinions
are
accursed.
Have
I
not
seen
the
loveliest
woman
born
Out
of
the
mouth
of
Plenty's
horn,
Because
of
her
opinionated
mind
Barter
that
horn
and
every
good
By
quiet
natures
understood
For
an
old
bellows
full
of
angry
wind?
Considering
that,
all
hatred
driven
hence,
The
soul
recovers
radical
innocence
And
learns
at
last
that
it
is
self-delighting,
Self-appeasing,
self-affrighting,
And
that
its
own
sweet
will
is
heaven's
will,
She
can,
though
every
face
should
scowl
And
every
windy
quarter
howl
Or
every
bellows
burst,
be
happy
still.
And
may
her
bridegroom
bring
her
to
a
house
Where
all's
accustomed,
ceremonious;
For
arrogance
and
hatred
are
the
wares
Peddled
in
the
thoroughfares.
How
but
in
custom
and
in
ceremony
Are
innocence
and
beauty
born?
Ceremony's
a
name
for
the
rich
horn,
And
custom
for
the
spreading
laurel
tree.
