SOMETIMES the dusk is full of fire.
Some dusks I sit by my window looking out and hotly and coldly want a Lover: hotly with my Body and coldly with my Mind.
A dusk has just gone. I sat looking out at it.
A mist of dark cream tinged with heated violet came from nowhere and hung above the ground.
Suddenly came on me a sense of bewildering mysterious beauty.
In it was a feel of rippling warmth that crept into my bone-and-flesh from forehead to heel, from temples to soles, from crown to toe-tips.
It crept slow and suffocating like magic chloroform.
I leaned elbows on window-sill and chin on palms and sunk my gaze in the violet shades outside and straightway knew I wanted a Lover: not in delicate moonlit culmination like Juliet in her balcony: not denyingly like the timid young nun in her cloister assailed unaware by faint forbidden emotions.
I wanted a Lover like the jungle leopard leaping through the Springtime covert at nightfall to find her mate.
It is a subtle and an obvious feeling, made of a merciless beauty.
