Poems, by Robert Louis Stevenson, hitherto unpublished/We are as maidens, one and all
WE ARE AS MAIDENS ONE AND ALL—1871
When Stevenson, in later years, was going over his youthful manuscripts, copying many of them, unquestionably with the intention of having them sooner or later find their way into print, he annotated the present manuscript with the significant ejaculation, "pooh-pooh!" This trenchant criticism, presumably due to the effeminate note in the imagery of the verses, strongly inclined us at first to follow the author's lead, and omit the poem from the present volume. But on further consideration it was thought best to let the verses take their place with the other compositions of their period; for while some readers may marvel at lines where human beings, it would seem, are compared to convent maidens, and Stevenson himself to a bashful bride, the poem has many appealing qualities, both in its phraseology and in its thought.
Especially notable is the picture of Death, who, cantering on his "great gray horse," suggests the engravings of Dürer and other old masters. In referring to Death as "that splendid acred Lord," Stevenson has found an original description, whether we interpret the phrase as referring to cemeteries—or "God's acres," as they used to be called—or whether we think of Death as master of all the earth.
The concluding stanza in which Stevenson disavows fear of the kiss of Death is of special interest, since, from early childhood he was always consciously within its shadow.
DEATH
We are as maidens one and all,
In some shut convent place,
Pleased with the flowers, the service bells,
The cloister's shady grace,
That whiles, with fearful, fluttering hearts,
Look outward thro the grate
And down the long white road, up which,
Some morning, soon or late,
Shall canter ort his great grey horse
That splendid acred Lord
Who comes to lead us forth—his wife,
But half with our accord.
With fearful fluttered hearts we wait—
We meet him, bathed in tears;
We are so loath to leave behind
Those tranquil convent years;
So loath to meet the pang, to take
(On some poor chance of bliss)
Life's labour on the windy sea
For a bower as still as this.
Weeping we mount the crowded aisle,
And weeping after us
The bridesmaids follow—Come to me!
I will not meet you thus,
Pale rider to the convent gate.
Come, O rough bridegroom, Death,
Where, bashful bride, I wait you, veiled,
Flush-faced, with shaken breath;
I do not fear your kiss. I dream
New days, secure from strife,
And, bride-like, in the future hope—
A quiet household life.