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The evening serenade of frogs, or the plaintive shrilling Of the Autumn insects which under the moon sing the dirge of Summer?

TRUTH: To the Poor night is welcome, not for its infinite beauty. But because, like death, it brings forgetfulness and an end to labor.

V.

TRUTH: Birth is pure and Death is pure. Was ever a baby born wicked. Or a child begotten impure?

POET:

Oh, my sisters, once you were babies ;

Once you were little mothers unto dolls.

Longing to be loved.

Do you remember the call, insistent,

Which you did not understand.

Even as the willows feel the persuasive incantation of

Spring, Which they do not understand? Nevertheless, they become proud with silver studs, And hang out the golden tassels of their fruitfulness, Shaking the pollen, inviting the bees. Oh, my sisters, you have come down to us Out of the Unknown, as the pure white wind-flowers Come up out of the dark earth in the silence of the forest. The ages have delivered you to us white with purity. But men have violated your beautiful bodies And sullied your unguessed souls.

Nature would not suffer you to sell your beautiful bodies ; Nor to soil your spirit invisible ; But Man requires it Even while he preaches holiness.

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