You may tell me that my hand and foot are only imaginary symbols of my existence. I could believe you, but you never, never can convince me that the I is not an eternal reality, and that the spiritual is not the true and real part of me.

I remain Mistress of mine own self and mine own soul

In the long years liker they must grow; The man be more of woman, she of man.

From yon blue heaven above us bent, The grand old gardener and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent.

Man is the hunter; women are the game; those sleek and shining creatures of the chase. We hunt them for the beauty of their skins; they love us for it, and we ride them down.

And men, whose reason long was blind, From cells of madness unconfined, Oft lose whole years of darker mind.

So sad, so fresh the days that are no more.