Of our blind woman-wrath, broke forth
In stinging hail of sharp-edged ice,
As freezing as the polar north.
Yet maddening. O, the poor mean vice
We women have been taught to call
By virtue's name: the holy scorn
We feel for lovers left love-lorn
By our own coldness, or by the wall
Of other love twixt them and us;
The tempest past, I paused. He stood
Silent,—and yet "Ungenerous!"
Was hurled back, plainer than ere could
His lips have said it, by his eyes
Fire-flashing, and his pale, set face,
Beautiful and unmarred by trace
Of aught save pain and pained surprise.
I quailed at last before that gaze,
And even faintly owned my wrong;
I said, "I spoke in such amaze
I could not choose words that belong
To such occasions." Here he smiled,
To cover one low, quick-drawn sigh:
"June even disturb us differently,"
He said, at length; "and I, beguiled
By something in the air did do
My lady Maud unmeant offense;
14
