A Soul

SHE stands as pale as Parian statues stand;

Like Cleopatra when she turned at bay,

And felt her strength above the Roman sway,

And felt the aspic writhing in her hand.

Her face is steadfast toward the shadowy land,

For dim beyond it looms the land of day:

Her feet are steadfast, all the arduous way

That foot-track doth not waver on the sand.

She stands there like a beacon through the night,

A pale clear beacon where the storm-drift is—

She stands alone, a wonder deathly-white.

She stands there patient nerved with inner might,

Indomitable in her feebleness,

Her face and will athirst against the light.