Compare her movements to the way older women walk—heavily, stiffly,
In comparison to this little one, whose every movement is a dance—
Look at her! She approaches the letters in a curious trance,
Her wandering fairy boots, her outfit slightly stiff, her hair turning;
She has more life in one of her arms or hands
Than Madame Stein, who, somberly weighed down by a million sorrows, stands
Proudly and solidly in womanhood, reading the pedantry of poetry
Ignorantly: poetry of the world, poetry titanic and hurly-burly.
It is poetry of the mind, the chopping in the pan of all that is man.
All virtue is young, all loveliness is girly;
All the pains we take in love, in undressing, to find
Love, are missed by this, by these wild movements of this sweet and innocent mind.