Poetesses

You who loved all lovely things And wrought in jewelled lines; You have gone your gracious ways That are patterned in dim stones Of perfumed, faint-hued words; You were a thing so feminine That even of war you sang in tender notes, But now another one has come, Who is herself at war. Her songs are keen and glittering, For she has felt the magic fire That you did long ago; But now the fire has burned clean through And forged a sword of steel. Swinging swords are women's songs That gleam as hard as diamonds do, And mean to cut tradition.

And yet those jewelled lines! Strangely the ancient magic works, Strangely the same fire lurks And burns imprisoned there In your dim, opaled words, That run like paths in heaven Paved in mosaic of sweet stones, And make a scented highway for our feet, Who wield these swinging swords.