Julia.
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ou'll find among the marshesThe sundew and the pitcher plant; in shallows,Where the green scum floats languidly you'll findThe water lily with white petals andA sickly perfume. But the sundew catchesThe midges flitting by with rainbow wings,Impales them on its tiny spines, in timeDevours them. And the pitcher plant holds outIts cup of green for larger bugs, which fallInto the water, treasured there like tearsOf women, and so drowned are soon absorbedInto the verdant vesture of its leaves.The pitcher plant and sundew, water lilyWell typify the nature of most womenWho must have blood or soul of man to live--Except you, Julia. For my friend at HinsdaleWho raises flowers laid out a primrose bed.He read somewhere that primroses will changeUnder your eyes sometimes to something else,Become another flower and not a primrose,Another species even. So he watchedAnd saw it, saw this miracle! The seedHas somewhere in its vital self the powerOf this mutation. What is the originOf 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 SolomonWho waits and watches and whose steps lead downTo death and hell. Nor yet Delilah whoRejoices in the secret of man's strengthAnd in subduing it. You are a flowerDesigned to comfort such poor men as I,And show the world how love can be a thingThat asks no more than what it freely gives,And gives all--all some women call the prizeFor life or honor, riches, power or place.You are a blossom in the primrose bedSo raised to subtler color, sweeter scent.You have mutated, Julia, that is it,This flower of you is what I call _The Lover_!
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