JIM AND ARABEL'S SISTER

Last night a friend of mine and I sat talking,

When all at once I found‘ twas one o'clock.

So we came out and he went home to wife

And children, and I started for the club

Which I call home; and then just like a flash

You came into my mind. I bought a slug

And stood, in the booth, with doubtful heart and heard

The buzzer buzz. Well, it was sweet to me

To hear your voice at last — it was so drowsy,

Like a child's voice. And I could see your eyes

Heavy with sleep, and I could see you standing

In nightgown with head leaned against the wall....

Julia! the welcome of your drowsy voice

Went through me like the warmth of priceless wine —

It showed your understanding, that you know

How it is with a man, and how it is with me

Who work by day and sometimes drift by night

About this hellish city. Though you know

That I am fifty-one, can you imagine

My feeling with no children growing up?

My feeling as of one who sees a play

And afterwards sits somewhere at a table

And talks with friends about the different parts

Over a sandwich and a glass of beer?

My feeling with this money which I've made

And cannot use? Sometimes the stress of working

The money dulls the fancy which could use it

In splendid dreams or in the art of life.

Well, here was I ringing your bell at last

At half-past one, and there you stood before me

With a sleepy voice and a sleepy smile, with hands

So warm, and cheeks so red from sleep, not vexed,

But like a child, awakened, who smiles at you

With half-shut eyes and kisses you, so you

Gave me a kiss. The world seems better, Julia,

For that kiss which you gave me at the door....

Breakfast? Why, toast and coffee, not too strong,

My heart acts queer of late....

I want to say

Lest I forget it, if you ever hear

From Arabel or Francis what I said

To Francis when he told me he intended

To marry Arabel, why just remember

Our talk this morning and forget I said it —

I'm sorry that I said it. But, you see,

That night we met, I being fifty-one

And old at what men call the game, looked on

With steady eye and quiet nerve, I saw you

Just as I'd see a woman anywhere;

And I found you as I'd found others before you,

But with this difference so it seemed to me:

What had been false with them was real with you,

What had been shame with them with you was life,

What had been craft with them with you was nature,

What had been sin with them to you was good,

What had been vice with them to you the honest

And uncorrupted innocence of a human

Heart so human looking on our souls.

What had been coarse to them to you was clean

As rain is, or fresh flowers, all things that grow

And move and sing along creation's way.

You came to me like friendship, what you gave

Was friendship's gift, when friends think least of self

And least of motive. And it is through you

That I have risen out of the pit where sneers

And laughter, looks and words obscene,

Blaspheme our nature. It is through you, Julia,

As one amid great beach trees where soft mosses

Pillow our heads and where we see the clouds

Upon their infinite sailings and the lake

Washes beneath us, and we lie and think

How this has been forever and will be

When we are dust a thousand, thousand years,

Yet how life is eternal — just as one

Who there falls into prayer for ecstasy

Of wonder, prophecy could not blaspheme

The Eternal Power ( as he might well blaspheme

The gospel hymns and ritual ) that I

Cannot blaspheme you, Julia.

For what is our communion, yours and mine,

If it be not a way of laying hold

On that mysterious essence which makes one

Of heaven and earth, makes kindred human hands....

Tears are not like you, Julia; laugh, that's right!

Pour me a little coffee, if you please.

I'll take from my herbarium certain species

To make my points: Now here there is the woman

Of life promiscuous, or nearly so.

She fixes her design upon a man,

Who's married and the riotous game begins.

They go along a year or two perhaps.

Then psychic chemistry performs its part:

They are in love, or he's in love with her.

What shall be done with love? Now watch the woman:

That which she gave without love at the first

She now withdraws in spite of love unless

He breaks his life up, cuts all former ties

And weds her. Do you wonder sometimes men

Kill women with a knife or strangle them?

Well, here's another: She has been to Ogontz,

You meet her at a dinner-dance, we'll say.

She has green eyes and hair as light as jonquils;

She wears black velvet and a salmon sash.

And when you dance with her she has a way

Of giving you her flesh beneath thin silk,

Which almost lisps as she caresses you

With legs that scarcely touch you; and she says

Things with a double meaning, and she smiles

To carry out her meaning. Well, you think

The girl is yours, and after weeks of chasing

She lands you up at the appointed place

With mamma, who looks at you with big eyes,

That have a nervous way of opening

And closing slowly like a big wax doll's,

From which great clouds of wrath and wonder come;

Which meeting is a way of saying to you:

The girl is yours if you will marry her,

And let her have your money.

Julia, be still;

I can n't go on while you are laughing so.

I know that men are easy, but to see

Women as women see them is a gift

That comes to men who reach my age in life....

Well, here's another, here's the type of woman

Whose power of motherhood conceals the art

By which she thrives, through which she reaches also

An apotheosis in society.

Her dream is children conscious or unconscious.

And her strength is the race's, and she draws

The urgings of posterity and leans

Upon the hopes and ideals of the day.

To her a man must sacrifice his life.

But women, Julia, of whatever type,

Are still but waiting ovules seeking man,

And man's life to develop, even to live.

And like the praying mantis who's devoured

In the embrace, man is devoured by women

In some way, by some sort. Love is a flame

In man's life where he warms him but to suck

The invisible heat and perish. Life is cramped,

Bound down with many ropes, shut in by gates —

Love is not free which should be wholly free

For Life's sake.

On Michigan Avenue

At lunch time, or at five o'clock, you'll see

In rain or shine a certain tailor walk

In modish coat and trousers, with a cane.

That fellow is the pitifulest man I know.

He has no woman, cannot find a woman,

Because all women, seeing him, divine

What surges through him, and within their hearts

Laugh slyly and deny him for the fun

Of seeing how denial keeps him walking

All up and down the boulevard. He's found

No hand of human friendship like yours, Julia.

I use him for my point. If we could make

Some fine erotometer one could sit

And watch its trembling springs and nervous hands

Record the waves of longing in the city,

And the urge of life that writhes beneath the blows

Of custom and of fear. Love is not free,

Which should be wholly free for Life's sake.

Julia.

So much for all these things, and now for you

To whom they lead.

You'll find among the marshes

The sundew and the pitcher plant; in shallows,

Where the green scum floats languidly you'll find

The water lily with white petals and

A sickly perfume. But the sundew catches

The midges flitting by with rainbow wings,

Impales them on its tiny spines, in time

Devours them. And the pitcher plant holds out

Its cup of green for larger bugs, which fall

Into the water, treasured there like tears

Of women, and so drowned are soon absorbed

Into the verdant vesture of its leaves.

The pitcher plant and sundew, water lily

Well typify the nature of most women

Who must have blood or soul of man to live —

Except you, Julia. For my friend at Hinsdale

Who raises flowers laid out a primrose bed.

He read somewhere that primroses will change

Under your eyes sometimes to something else,

Become another flower and not a primrose,

Another species even. So he watched

And saw it, saw this miracle! The seed

Has somewhere in its vital self the power

Of this mutation. What is the origin

Of spiritual species? For you're a primrose, Julia,

Who has mutated: You are not a mother;

Nor are you yet the woman seeking marriage;

Nor yet the woman thriving by her sex;

Nor yet the woman spoken of by Solomon

Who waits and watches and whose steps lead down

To death and hell. Nor yet Delilah who

Rejoices in the secret of man's strength

And in subduing it.

You are a flower

Designed to comfort such poor men as I,

And show the world how love can be a thing

That asks no more than what it freely gives,

And gives all — all some women call the prize

For life or honor, riches, power or place.

You are a blossom in the primrose bed

So raised to subtler color, sweeter scent.

You have mutated, Julia, that is it,

This flower of you is what I call The Lover!