“I ‘meant’ your ‘sister’? Why?—who named her?—I?— Name her, did I, as being duteous?— Who ‘mean’ I then?—You little fluttering bird Suppose you were some actual little bird, How would you tell whence came or whither went The wind that ruff’d your feathers?—Do you know, You women always will match thoughts to things? You chat as birds chirp, when their mates grow bright: You love when comes a look that smiles on you. We men are more creative. We love love, Our own ideal long before aught real: Our halo of young fancy circles naught Save empty sky far off.—And yet those rays Fit like a crown, at last, about the face That fortune drives between our goal and us. “Yet, all may fail of truth; none fail like those Who deem themselves the most infallible: None more than men who, fallible in proof, Yet flout the failure of a woman’s guess. And your guess?—it went right. I thought of her, Your sister. We both honor her, and much. And yet I fear her, lest her will so strong Should overmatch by aught your strength of will. For God has given you your own moods, friend; And are you not responsible for them? And if you yield them up too readily, Not meaning wrong, yet may you not mistake? Our lives, remember, are not sounding-boards, Not senseless things, resounding for a world That nothing new can find in what we give. If one but echo back another’s note, Can he give forth God’s message through his own? Yet,—Nay, I would not chide, I caution you. Wit heeds a hint; ’tis dulness questions it. “And so you thought I wish’d my pillow turn’d, And books, and tales, and bustlings all about? Does not the world, then, worry life enough,— That one should crave for more to worry him? Do I so lack for exercise? Ah me! Some nervous mothers—bless them!—shake their babes. I never deem’d it wise; oh, no—am sure The friction frets the temper of the child.— Not natural, you see: God never shakes The ground with earthquakes when we wish for spring. He does not drive life from its germ, He draws By still, bright warmth. Pauline, but look at me. Too weak am I now to be driven to life; Nay, nay, but must be drawn.—And ah! could tell Where orbs there are more bright than suns could be— Nay, do nor blush nor turn that face away. You dream, aha, that I want sunset?—what?— The colors come right pretty, but—there, there— “What say?—I ‘dare not face’ you now?—Those eyes, Too bright, are they? or loving? Love, like God, So brightly dear is it, that lives like ours, Poor vapory lives, mere dews before the dawn, Dare not to face it lest we melt away?— Then be it so. Then look, Pauline, I dare Am I not yours? Should you not use your own?— Ay, darling, draw me all within yourself.” XVII.