Most illogical Irrational nature of our womanhood, That blushes one way, feels another way, And prays, perhaps another!
And Chaucer, with his infantine Familiar clasp of things divine.
I work with patience, which is almost power.
But so fair, She takes the breath of men away Who gaze upon her unaware.
The essence of all beauty, I call love.
Souls are dangerous things to carry straight through all the spilt saltpetre of this world.