THE GIRL

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.

 

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