"Now take this girl: She knew before she sailed to France, this man, This Barrett Bays was mad about her--knew She could stay here and have him, live with him, And thus achieve a happiness. And she knew To leave him was to make a chance to lose him. But then you say she knew he'd tire of her, And left for France. And still that happiness Before he tired would be hers. You see This spirit I'd delineate working here: To sacrifice and by the sacrifice Rise to a bigger spirit, make it truer; Then bring that truer spirit to her love For Barrett Bays, and not just loll and slop In love to-day. Why does she wish to give A finer spirit to this Barrett Bays? And to that end take life in hand? It's this: My Something, God at work. You say it's woman In sublimate of passion--call it that. Why sublimate a passion? All her life This girl aspires--you think to win a man? But win a man with what? With finest self Make this her contribution to these riches, Which Bruno and the others filled so full. You see this Something going on, but races Come up, express themselves and pass away; But yet this Something manifests itself Through souls like Elenor Murray's--fills her life With fuller meanings, maybe at the last This Something will reveal itself so clear That men like David Barrow can perceive. And Love, this spirit, twin of Death, you see Love slays this girl, but Love remains to slay, Lift up, drive on and slay. I call Death twin Of Love, and why? Because two things alone Make what we are and live, first Love the flame, And Death the cap that snuffs it. Is it bread That keeps us dancing, skating like these bugs That play criss-cross on evening waters?--no! It's bread to get more life to give more love, Bring to some heart a fuller life, receive A fuller life for having given life. This force of love may look demonical. It tears, destroys, and crushes, chokes and kills, Is always stretching hands to Death its twin. And yet it is creation and creates, Feeds roses, jonquils, columbines, gardenias, As well as thistles, cockle burrs and thorns. This is the force to which the girl's alert, And sensitive, is shaken by its power, Driven, uplifted, purified; a doll Of paper dancing on magnetic plates; And by that passion lusts for Death himself, For union with another, sacrifice, Beauty, and she aspires and toils, and turns To God, the symptom always of this nature. My fellow-jurymen, you'll never see, Or learn so well about another soul That had this Love force deeper in her flesh, Her spirit, suffered more. Why do we suffer? What is this love force? 'Tis the child of blood Of madness, as this Elenor is the seed Of that old grandma, who was mad, and cousin Of Taylor who did murder. What is this But human spirit flamed and subtleized Until it is a poison and a food; A madness but a clearest sanity;