Poems (Sharpless)/The Crowned Corinne

by Frances M. Sharpless

THE CROWNED CORINNE

"Happy—happier far than thou,
With the laurel on thy brow—
She that makes the humblest hearth
Lovely but to one on earth."

At last, alone! shut close the latticed door,
 Safe from intrusive eyes upon the street;
How very sweet to be alone once more,
 Listening the echo of departing feet,
And yield to all the tender dreams that come
 To glorify my home!

'Twas a proud day! and yet I am more glad
 And happier that 'tis o'er; this laurel wreath
Thrills me with joy, and yet a memory sad
 Quivers with anguish and despair beneath;
My country crowns me, yet she seems to say,
 "Put womanhood away."

I know of dearer things than this, to stand
 The admired centre of all curious eyes;
Where every flower blooming for love's hand
 In the white glare, pales utterly, and dies,
And, like a stranger to your sex, you see
 What happy women be!

Yes! I remember as we neared the hill
 Where stands the Capitol, a woman pressed
Near to my car, and nearer yet, until
 I looked upon the baby at her breast;
Nestled in loving arms, so trustfully,
 It slept, unheeding me.

And she—ah me! in that my proudest hour,
 I could but mark the perfect happiness
That gave to features plain such potent power.
 My world-praised beauty seemed to me far less:
Those tender clinging arms had brought a charm
 The cestus could but harm.

And there were others, who, with glance at me,
 Sitting aloft in splendid pomp, would turn
To dearer eyes, as though to bid me see
 How woman's heart for love, not fame, will yearn.
And then I felt, as my proud car moved on,
 Amid a crowd, alone.

Ah me! my woman's heart! will laurel crown,
 Triumphal cars, and praises loudly spread,
Fill the large soul that must live on alone,
 Or find companions only 'mid the dead,
Whose grand philosophy must ever move
 More reverence than love?

But if for me love's tender happiness
 Be all denied, yet thou, my Italy,
My heart's own country, hath such power to bless,
 I cannot but be happy, loving thee:—
Poet and artist for thy sake, I lay
 My womanhood away.

Vanish, ye visions, from my longing eyes,
 Of sweet, domestic joy, and household bliss;
Where lingers earth's last gleam of paradise
 In hallowed love and childhood's guileless kiss,
No myrtle wreath for me shall lover twine,—
 The laurel crown is mine!