Jim And Arabel's Sister

    Last night a friend of mine and I sat talking,
    When all at once I found 'twas one o'clock.
    So we came out and he went home to wife
    And children, and I started for the club
    Which I call home; and then just like a flash
    You came into my mind. I bought a slug
    And stood, in the booth, with doubtful heart and heard
    The buzzer buzz. Well, it was sweet to me
    To hear your voice at last - it was so drowsy,
    Like a child's voice. And I could see your eyes
    Heavy with sleep, and I could see you standing
    In nightgown with head leaned against the wall....

    Julia! the welcome of your drowsy voice
    Went through me like the warmth of priceless wine,
    It showed your understanding, that you know
    How it is with a man, and how it is with me
    Who work by day and sometimes drift by night
    About this hellish city. Though you know
    That I am fifty-one, can you imagine
    My feeling with no children growing up?
    My feeling as of one who sees a play
    And afterwards sits somewhere at a table
    And talks with friends about the different parts
    Over a sandwich and a glass of beer?
    My feeling with this money which I've made
    And cannot use? Sometimes the stress of working
    The money dulls the fancy which could use it
    In splendid dreams or in the art of life.
    Well, here was I ringing your bell at last
    At half-past one, and there you stood before me
    With a sleepy voice and a sleepy smile, with hands
    So warm, and cheeks so red from sleep, not vexed,
    But like a child, awakened, who smiles at you
    With half-shut eyes and kisses you, so you
    Gave me a kiss. The world seems better, Julia,
    For that kiss which you gave me at the door....

    Breakfast? Why, toast and coffee, not too strong,
    My heart acts queer of late....

        I want to say
    Lest I forget it, if you ever hear
    From Arabel or Francis what I said
    To Francis when he told me he intended
    To marry Arabel, why just remember
    Our talk this morning and forget I said it,
    I'm sorry that I said it. But, you see,
    That night we met, I being fifty-one
    And old at what men call the game, looked on
    With steady eye and quiet nerve, I saw you
    Just as I'd see a woman anywhere;
    And I found you as I'd found others before you,
    But with this difference so it seemed to me:
    What had been false with them was real with you,
    What had been shame with them with you was life,
    What had been craft with them with you was nature,
    What had been sin with them to you was good,
    What had been vice with them to you the honest
    And uncorrupted innocence of a human
    Heart so human looking on our souls.
    What had been coarse to them to you was clean
    As rain is, or fresh flowers, all things that grow
    And move and sing along creation's way.
    You came to me like friendship, what you gave
    Was friendship's gift, when friends think least of self
    And least of motive. And it is through you
    That I have risen out of the pit where sneers
    And laughter, looks and words obscene,
    Blaspheme our nature. It is through you, Julia,
    As one amid great beach trees where soft mosses
    Pillow our heads and where we see the clouds
    Upon their infinite sailings and the lake
    Washes beneath us, and we lie and think
    How this has been forever and will be
    When we are dust a thousand, thousand years,
    Yet how life is eternal - just as one
    Who there falls into prayer for ecstasy
    Of wonder, prophecy could not blaspheme
    The Eternal Power (as he might well blaspheme
    The gospel hymns and ritual) that I
    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.

    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!