On Michigan Avenue At lunch time, or at five o'clock, you'll see In rain or shine a certain tailor walk In modish coat and trousers, with a cane. That fellow is the pitifulest man I know. He has no woman, cannot find a woman, Because all women, seeing him, divine What surges through him, and within their hearts Laugh slyly and deny him for the fun Of seeing how denial keeps him walking All up and down the boulevard. He's found No hand of human friendship like yours, Julia. I use him for my point. If we could make Some fine erotometer one could sit And watch its trembling springs and nervous hands Record the waves of longing in the city, And the urge of life that writhes beneath the blows Of custom and of fear. Love is not free, Which should be wholly free for Life's sake. Julia. So much for all these things, and now for you To whom they lead. You'll find among the marshes The sundew and the pitcher plant; in shallows, Where the green scum floats languidly you'll find The water lily with white petals and A sickly perfume. But the sundew catches The midges flitting by with rainbow wings, Impales them on its tiny spines, in time Devours them. And the pitcher plant holds out Its cup of green for larger bugs, which fall Into the water, treasured there like tears Of women, and so drowned are soon absorbed Into the verdant vesture of its leaves. The pitcher plant and sundew, water lily Well typify the nature of most women Who must have blood or soul of man to live-- Except you, Julia. For my friend at Hinsdale Who raises flowers laid out a primrose bed. He read somewhere that primroses will change Under your eyes sometimes to something else, Become another flower and not a primrose, Another species even. So he watched And saw it, saw this miracle! The seed Has somewhere in its vital self the power Of this mutation. What is the origin Of spiritual species? For you're a primrose, Julia, Who has mutated: You are not a mother; Nor are you yet the woman seeking marriage; Nor yet the woman thriving by her sex; Nor yet the woman spoken of by Solomon Who waits and watches and whose steps lead down To death and hell. Nor yet Delilah who Rejoices in the secret of man's strength And in subduing it. You are a flower Designed to comfort such poor men as I, And show the world how love can be a thing That asks no more than what it freely gives, And gives all--all some women call the prize For life or honor, riches, power or place. You are a blossom in the primrose bed So raised to subtler color, sweeter scent. You have mutated, Julia, that is it, This flower of you is what I call _The Lover_! THE SORROW OF DEAD FACES