WHILE I live so still in this life-space, while I muse and meditate and analyze everything I touch, while I walk, while I work, while I change from one plain frock to the other: in quiet hours roiled tumbling storms of vicarious unhopeful Passion whirl, whirl in me: Passion of Soul, Passion of Mind, Passion of living, Passion of this mixed world: in terror, in wild unease, in reasonless mournful joy.
I never knew real Passion, Passion-meanings, till I reached thirty. It is now I'm at life's storm-center, youth's climax, the high-pulsed orgasmic moment of being alive.
At twenty the woman's chrysalis soul and aching pulses awaken in crude chaste Spring-cold beauty. At forty her fires either have subsided to dim-glowing coals or leaped to too-positive, too-searing, too-obvious flames—her bones and the filigrees of her spirit may be alike dry, brittle-ish. But at thirty her Spring has but changed to midsummer. Poesy still waits upon her Passions.
My Spring has changed, bloomed, burst to midsummer.
Soft electrical heat-currents of being swing and sweep around me. They touch me and enter my
