A Prayer for my Daughter

　　Once more the storm is howling， and half hid

　　Under this cradle-hood and coverlid

　　My child sleeps on.　There is no obstacle

　　But Gregory's wood and one bare hill

　　Whereby the haystack- and roof-levelling wind，

　　Bred on the Atlantic， can be stayed;

　　And for an hour I have walked and prayed

　　Because of the great gloom that is in my mind.

　　I have walked and prayed for this young child an hour

　　And heard the sea-wind scream upon the tower，

　　And under the arches of the bridge， and scream

　　In the elms above the flooded stream;

　　Imagining in excited reverie

　　That the future years had come，

　　Dancing to a frenzied drum，

　　Out of the murderous innocence of the sea.

　　May she be granted beauty and yet not

　　Beauty to make a stranger's eye distraught，

　　Or hers before a looking-glass， for such，

　　Being made beautiful overmuch，

　　Consider beauty a sufficient end，

　　Lose natural kindness and maybe

　　The heart-revealing intimacy

　　That chooses right， and never find a friend.

　　Helen being chosen found life flat and dull

　　And later had much trouble from a fool，

　　While that great Queen， that rose out of the spray，

　　Being fatherless could have her way

　　Yet chose a bandy-leggèd smith for man.

　　It's certain that fine women eat

　　A crazy salad with their meat

　　Whereby the Horn of Plenty is undone.

　　In courtesy I'd have her chiefly learned;

　　Hearts are not had as a gift but hearts are earned

　　By those that are not entirely beautiful;

　　Yet many， that have played the fool

　　For beauty's very self， has charm made wise，

　　And many a poor man that has roved，

　　Loved and thought himself beloved，

　　From a glad kindness cannot take his eyes.

　　May she become a flourishing hidden tree

　　That all her thoughts may like the linnet be，

　　And have no business but dispensing round

　　Their magnanimities of sound，

　　Nor but in merriment begin a chase，

　　Nor but in merriment a quarrel.

　　O may she live like some green laurel

　　Rooted in one dear perpetual place.

　　My mind， because the minds that I have loved，

　　The sort of beauty that I have approved，

　　Prosper but little， has dried up of late，

　　Yet knows that to be choked with hate

　　May well be of all evil chances chief.

　　If there's no hatred in a mind

　　Assault and battery of the wind

　　Can never tear the linnet from the leaf.

　　An intellectual hatred is the worst，

　　So let her think opinions are accursed.

　　Have I not seen the loveliest woman born

　　Out of the mouth of Plenty's horn，

　　Because of her opinionated mind

　　Barter that horn and every good

　　By quiet natures understood

　　For an old bellows full of angry wind?

　　Considering that， all hatred driven hence，

　　The soul recovers radical innocence

　　And learns at last that it is self-delighting，

　　Self-appeasing， self-affrighting，

　　And that its own sweet will is Heaven's will;

　　She can， though every face should scowl

　　And every windy quarter howl

　　Or every bellows burst， be happy still.

　　And may her bridegroom bring her to a house

　　Where all's accustomed， ceremonious;

　　For arrogance and hatred are the wares

　　Peddled in the thoroughfares.

　　How but in custom and in ceremony

　　Are innocence and beauty born?

　　Ceremony's a name for the rich horn，

　　And custom for the spreading laurel tree.