Classic Poem

You think I do not note that highest peak
In Art's fair mountain-land? Nay, but I see,
And more than that, half-way along its height
Run lines of frozen foot-prints made by me.

Ask of those travelers who have stood upon
Its dizziest height, to tell you of the trail
I left upon those snows as far along
As where the mists begin to weave their veil.

And when the pilgrims in that bitter air
See my faint footsteps where they pause, then go
Vale-ward again, they do but smile and say:
" Small woman-feet! They could not tread this snow.

" She has returned to walk in household ways. "
And, passing by the landmark made by me,
They breathless struggle on, and mount the crest
That I shall never reach, and scarce can see.

But oh, my heart is with them! By the hearth
I chose, I swear I might have mounted still,
And stood there with the cloud-rack round my head!
The power and strength were mine, though not the will.

So speak not of me, comrades, as of one
Too weak to win the summit where you stand,
And thus unworthy of your greeting shout
That echoes down to this green pasture-land.

But say, " She could not choose: one power there is
As great as Art, the lord of our domain;
And when Love leadeth down the mountain-path,
A woman's feet to follow him are fain.

" She could not choose: so sometimes when we share
The mystic joys and pains she cannot claim,
We will remember she was of us once
And, as of comrade dead, speak soft her name. "