Consider this. Arts have their Medium-
Coloratura, tempera, or stone.
Through medium of paint the Ideal Form
Of the Eternal Mother shows herself
(Though modelled maybe on some worthless wench
No better than she should be, we may guess).
Through medium of language the great Poets
Keep constant the Ideal, as Beatrice
Speaks still to us, though Dante's flesh is dust.
So through the Medium of this poor flesh
With sweats and groanings, nauseas and cries
Of animal anguish, the sublimest Souls
Make themselves known to those who sit and wait.
And through this self-same flesh, they urge the skills
That light the phosphor-matches, knot the threads
Or lift the heavy chair from off the rug.
The spirits weave them flesh and robes of air,
Of air and matter of my grosser breath
Whose warmth brushes thy brow in this my kiss-
And if one night they neither come nor weave-
Why you and I may make their motions felt
With subtle fingers and the self-same breath
Lifting the more corporeal veils of flesh . . .
You catch my meaning?
One night the flute is filled with spirit breath
Swooningly sweet. The next, my breath, or thine,
Tutored by them, must body forth their sound
Since they neglect to whistle, but the notes
The self-same notes breathe still the self-same sigh
Of sweet regret and sweeter hope to come-
Art tells a truth, sweet girl, though all her tales
Are lies i'the law-court, or the chemist's phial-
We must be artful for the spirit's truth
In which we're tutored by them, d'you see?
You must not stare at me with fair large eyes
Full of a question and a glittering tear.
Drink up this cordial glass of wildflower wine-
'Twill settle you-come near-compose yourself
And fix your eyes on mine, your hand in mine,
And feel us breathe together. So. When first
I mesmerised you, and your youthful soul
Opened itself to mine, as morning flowers
Open their cups to the warm Sun, I knew
You were a being set apart, a Soul
Responsive to my powers, and ductile too.
Look up into my eyes, I say. You see
The love of a good woman there, whate'er
The spirit lords may else reveal, my dear.
Draw in the influence fearlessly. Now drowse
And calm your pulses, whilst my stronger arm
Supports your softnesses. Here, Géraldine.
My love is merciless to do you good.
Know you not that we Women have no Power
In the cold world of objects Reason rules,
Where all is measured and mechanical?
There we are chattels, baubles, property,
Flowers pent in vases with our roots sliced off,
To shine a day and perish. But you see,
Here in this secret room, all curtained round
With vaguest softness, all dimly lit
With flickerings and twinklings, where all shapes
Are indistinct, all sounds ambiguous,
Here we have Power, here the Irrational,
The Intuition of the Unseen Powers
Speaks to our women's nerves, galvanic threads
Which gather up, interpret and transmit
The unseen Powers and their hidden Will.
This is our negative world, where the Unseen,
Unheard, Impalpable, and Unconfined
Speak to and through us -it is we who hear,
Our natures that receive their thrilling force.
Come into this reversed world, Géraldine,
Where power flows upwards, as in the glass ball,
Where left is right, and clocks go widdershins,
And women sit enthroned and wear the robes,
The wreaths of scented roses and the crowns,
The jewels in our hair, the sardonyx,
The moonstones and the rubies and the pearls,
The royal stones, where we are priestesses
And powerful Queens, and all swims with our Will.
All mages have been tricksters. We are no
More and no less than all High Priests have been
Holding the masses to the faith with shows
Of firework and magic to impress
With symbols of Heaven's brightness those dull eyes
Which won't conceive our meanings from our speech.
You are calmer now. That's good. That's good. I stroke
The blue veins in your arms with my ringed hands
And power flows from me to you. You feel
The benefit of it. You are calm. Quite calm.
You call yourself my Slave. Not so, my dear.
Avoid extravagance of phrase or tone
If you would taste success in this new Sphere.
You are my Pupil and my dear, dear friend,
You are, who knows, the next Sybilla Silt,
But now you must be decorous and show
Deference to the ladies, gentle tact
To the rough male-folk, bring them cups of tea
And smile, and listen, for we need to know
All that their innocent gossiping reveals.