A Woman’s Complaint

I Know that deep within your heart of hearts You hold me shrined apart from common things, And that my step, my voice, can bring to you A gladness that no other presence brings. And yet, dear love, through all the weary days You never speak one word of tenderness, Nor stroke my hair, nor softly clasp my hand Within your own in loving, mute caress. You think, perhaps, I should be all content To know so well the loving place I hold Within your life, and so you do not dream How much I long to hear the story told. You cannot know, when we two sit alone, And tranquil thoughts within your mind are stirred, My heart is crying like a tired child For one fond look, one gentle, loving word. It may be when your eyes look into mine You only say, “How dear she is to me!” Oh, could I read it in your softened glance, How radiant this plain old world would be! Perhaps, sometimes, you breathe a secret prayer That choicest blessings unto me be given; But if you said aloud, “God bless thee, dear!” I should not ask a greater boon from Heaven. I weary sometimes of the rugged way; But should you say, “Through thee my life is sweet,” The dreariest desert that our path could cross Would suddenly grow green beneath my feet. ’T is not the boundless waters ocean holds That give refreshment to the thirsty flowers, But just the drops that, rising to the skies, From thence descend in softly falling showers. What matter that our granaries are filled With all the richest harvest’s golden stores, If we who own them cannot enter in, But famished stand before the close-barred doors? And so ’t is sad that those who should be rich In that true love that crowns our earthly lot, Go praying with white lips from day to day For love’s sweet tokens, and receive them not.