Classic Poem

O Englishwoman on the Pincian,
I love you not, nor ever can —
Astounding woman on the Pincian!

I know your mechanism well-adjusted,
I see your mind and body have been trusted
To all the proper people:
I see you straight as is a steeple;
I see you are not old;
I see you are a rich man's daughter;
I see you know the use of gold,
But also know the use of soap-and-water;
And yet I love you not, nor ever can —
Distinguished woman on the Pincian!

You have no doubt of your preiminence,
Nor do I make pretence
To challenge it for my poor little slattern,
Whose costume dates from Saturn —
My wall-flower with the long, love-draggled fringes:
But then the controversy hinges
On higher forms; and you must bear
Comparisons more noble. Stare, yes, stare —
I love you not, nor ever can,
You peerless woman on the Pincian.
No, you'll not see her on the Pincian,
My Roman woman, wife of Roman man!
Elsewhere you may —
And she is bright as is the day;
And she is sweet, that honest workman's wife
Fulfilled with bounteous life:
Her body balanced like a spring
In equipoise of perfect natural grace;
Her soul unquestioning
Of ought but genial cares; her face,
Her frock, her attitude, her pace
The confluence of absolute harmonies —
And you, my Lady Margaret,
Pray what have you to set
'Gainst splendours such as these?
No, I don't love you, and I never can,
Pretentious woman on the Pincian!

But morals — beautiful serenity
Of social life, the sugar and the tea,
The flannels and the soup, the coals,
The patent recipes for saving souls,
And other things: the chill dead sneer
Conventional, the abject fear
Of form-transgressing freedom — I admit
That you have these; but love you not a whit
The more, nor ever can,
Alarming female on the Pincian!

Come out, O woman, from this blindness!
Rome, too, has women full of loving-kindness,
Has noble women, perfect in all good
That makes the glory of great womanhood —
But they are Women! I have seen them bent
On gracious errand; seen how goodness lent
The grave, ineffable charm
That guards from possibility of harm
A creature so divinely made,
So softly swayed
With native gesture free —
The melting-point of passionate purity.
Yes — soup and flannels too,
And tickets for them — just like you —
Tracts, books, and all the innumerable channels
Through which your bounty acts —
Well — not the tracts,
But certainly the flannels —
Her I must love, but you I never can,
Unlovely woman on the Pincian.

And yet —
Remarkable woman on the Pincian! —
We owe a sort of debt
To you, as having gone with us of old
To those bleak islands, cold
And desolate and grim,
Upon the Ocean's rim,
And shared their horrors with us — not that then
Our poor bewildered ken
Could catch the further issues, knowing only
That we were very lonely!
Ah well, you did us service in your station;
And how the progress of our civilisation
Has made you quite so terrible
It boots not ask; for still
You gave us stalwart scions,
Suckled the young sea-lions,
And smiled infrequent, glacial smiles
Upon the sulky isles —
For this and all His mercies — stay at home!
Here are the passion-flowers!
Here are the sunny hours!
O Pincian woman, do not come to Rome!