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Updated: May 29, 2025
There is something so deeply shocking in the idea of a woman being other than kind and good, something so antagonistic to the smug conception of Eve as the ``minist'ring angel, thou, that leaps to extremes in expression are easy. A drunken woman, however, and for example, is not essentially more degraded than a drunken man. This in spite of popular belief.
She is more a queen Than he a king; and whoso looks must kneel And worship, conscious of a Sovranty Undreamt in nature, save it be the Heaven That minist'ring to all is queen of all, And wears the proud sun's self but as a gem To grace her girdle, one among the stars. Heaven is Francesca, and Francesca Heaven.
Labour and love for ever Strengthen each hard endeavour, Now climb we up or never, Upward to glory! Winter and summer past, Autumn has come at last, Hope in its keeping. Beauty of tinted wood, Beauty of tranquil mood, Harvest of earned good Ripe for the reaping. Seasons of which I sing, Are they not like, my king, Thine own life's minist'ring In all its stages?
She had been led to expect something in the nature of a personal revelation, and the first sonnet struck the key-note, gave her the clue. I asked the minist'ring priests who never tire In love's high service, who behold their bliss Through golden gloom of Love's dread mysteries, What heaven there be for earth's foregone desire? And they kept silence.
"Such authority, in shew, When most severe and minist'ring all its force, Is but the graver countenance of love, Whose favour, like the clouds of spring may lower, And utter now and then an awful voice, But has a blessing in its darkest frown, Threat'ning at once and nourishing the plant." Thomson.
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