At A Bridal

WHEN you paced forth, to wait maternity,
       A dream of other offspring held my mind,
       Compounded of us twain as Love designed;
     Rare forms, that corporate now will never be!

     Should I, too, wed as slave to Mode's decree,
       And each thus found apart, of false desire,
       A stolid line, whom no high aims will fire
     As had fired ours could ever have mingled we;

     And, grieved that lives so matched should miscompose,
       Each mourn the double waste; and question dare
     To the Great Dame whence incarnation flows,
       Why those high-purposed children never were:
       What will she answer? That she does not care
     If the race all such sovereign types unknows.