Girls blush, sometimes, because they are alive, half wishing they were dead to save the shame. The sudden blush devours them, neck and brow; They have drawn too near the fire of life, like gnats, and flare up bodily, wings and all. What then? Who's sorry for a gnat or girl?

And each man stands with his face in the light. Of his own drawn sword, ready to do what a hero can.

We overstate the ills of life, and take Imagination... down our earth to rake.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach.

Oh, a day in the city-square, there is no such pleasure in life!

The growing drama has outgrown such toys Of simulated stature, face, and speech: It also peradventure may outgrow The simulation of the painted scene, Boards, actors, prompters, gaslight, and costume, And take for a worthier stage the soul itself, Its shifting fancies and celestial lights, With all its grand orchestral silences To keep the pauses of its rhythmic sounds.

Eve is a twofold mystery.