The deep-dyed Lesbian woman is a creature whose sensibilities are over-balanced: whose imagination moves on mad low-flying wings: whose brain is good: whose predilections are warped: who lives always in unrest: whose inner walls are streaked with garish heathen pigments: whose copious love-instincts are an odd mixture of mirth, malice and _luxure_. Its effects in me who am straight-made in nothing, but strongly crooked, is to vivify tenfold or a hundredfold or a thousandfold in my shaded vision the womanness of any woman whose inner or outer beauty arrests and stirs my spirit. I see in some woman, some girl, any who attracts me--be she a casual acquaintance, or a Victorian poet dead fifty years whose poetry and portrait live, or an actor in a play, or a sweet-browed friend, or an Old Master--I see one such as if all her charm were newly painted and placed near me shining wet with delicate fresh paint. It is bewitching to look at: it has a deep seductive fragrance of smell: it is luxuriantly aromatic to all my known senses--and two senses unknown float from my deeps and rise at it. The Stranger becomes a dearly poignant fancy to dream over. My Friend turns into a vivid goddess whose fingers and hair I would touch tenderly with my lips. Because of it a little flame, pale but primal, leaps from the flattest details of life. In such a mood-adventure a window-shutter blooms: a hair-brush glows: a sordid floor has gleams upon it. These bewildering frightful beautifulnesses in this life--. --withal the same inherence which makes me someway Lesbian makes me the floor of the setting sun--strewn with overflowing gold and green vases of Fire and Turquoise--a sly and piercing annihilation-of-beauty, wonderful devastating to feel--oh, blighting breaking to feel--oh, deathly lovely to feel!--It is the bewitched obliquities that run away with me: grind, gnaw, eat my true human heart like bright potent vitriol. What God means me to do with such gifts and phases--I don’t and don’t understand. I never get anywhere as I think it out. I don’t know shades of rights and wrongs since that ancient witch-light has found more trueness of human feeling in me than has any simplicity my life knows. It began, they say, with Sappho and her dreaming students in the long-ago vales of Lesbos. It may be, I daresay. I know it did not stop there. And I know that--Greek, French, Scotch, Indian--Welch--Japanese--_all_ women sense its light lyric touch. For myself, I know only it is part and parcel in my tangled tired coil. I don’t know whether I am good and sweet in it or evil and untoward. And I don’t care. _The gray-purple_ To-morrow