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'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.