Who was La Menken? She's born in Louisiana in thirty-five, Left fatherless at seven--mother takes her And puts her in the ballet at New Orleans. She dances then from Texas clear to Cuba; Then gives up dancing, studies tragedy, And plays Bianca! Fourteen years of age Weds Menken, who's a Jew, divorced from him; Then falls in love with Heenan, pugilist. They quarrel and separate--it's in this pamphlet Just as I tell you; you can take it, Coroner. Now something happens, nothing in her birth Or place of birth to prophesy her life Like Starved Rock to this Elenor--being grown, A hand instead is darted from the curtain That hangs between to-day, to-morrow, sticks A symbol on her heart and whispers to her: You're this, my woman. Well, the thing was this: She played Mazeppa: take your dummy off, And lash me to the horse. They were afraid, But she prevailed, was nearly killed the first night, And after that succeeded, was the rage And for her years remaining found herself Lashed to the wild horse of ungoverned will, Which ran and wandered, till she knew herself With stronger will than vision, passion stronger Than spirit to judge; the richness of the world, Love, beauty, living, greater than her power. And all the time she had the appetite To eat, devour it all. Grown sick at last, She diagnosed her case, wrote to a friend: The soul and body do not fit each other-- A human spirit in a horse's flesh. This is your Elenor Murray, in a way. But to return to pansies, run your hand Over a bed of pansies; here's a pansy With petals stunted, here's another one All perfect but one petal, here's another Too streaked or mottled--all are pansies though. And here is one full petaled, strikes the eye With perfect color, markings. Elenor Murray Has something of the color and the form Of this La Menken, but is less a pansy, And Sappho, Rachel, Bernhardt are the flowers La Menken strove to be, and could not be, Ended with being only of their kind. And now there's pity for this Elenor Murray, And people wept when poor La Menken died. Both lived and had their way. I hate this pity, It makes you overlook there are two hours: The hour of joy, the hour of finding out Your joy was all mistake, or led to pain. We who inspect these lives behold the pain, And see the error, do not keep in mind The hour of rapture, and the pride, indeed With which your Elenor Murrays and La Menkens Have lived that hour, elation, pride and scorn For any other way--"this is the life" I hear them say.