Chapter 3

Helen of Troy had a wandering glance;Sappho's restriction was only the sky;Ninon was ever the chatter of France;But oh, what a good girl am I!

They hail you as their morning starBecause you are the way you are.If you return the sentiment,They'll try to make you different;And once they have you, safe and sound,They want to change you all around.Your moods and ways they put a curse on;They'd make of you another person.They cannot let you go your gait;They influence and educate.They'd alter all that they admired.They make me sick, they make me tired.

Men seldom make passesAt girls who wear glasses.

Here in my heart I am Helen;I'm Aspasia and Hero, at least.I'm Judith, and Jael, and Madame de Staël;I'm Salomé, moon of the East.Here in my soul I am Sappho;Lady Hamilton am I, as well.In me Récamier vies with Kitty O'Shea,With Dido, and Eve, and poor Nell.I'm of the glamorous ladiesAt whose beckoning history shook.But you are a man, and see only my pan,So I stay at home with a book.

Here in my heart I am Helen;I'm Aspasia and Hero, at least.I'm Judith, and Jael, and Madame de Staël;I'm Salomé, moon of the East.

Here in my soul I am Sappho;Lady Hamilton am I, as well.In me Récamier vies with Kitty O'Shea,With Dido, and Eve, and poor Nell.

I'm of the glamorous ladiesAt whose beckoning history shook.But you are a man, and see only my pan,So I stay at home with a book.

Sleep, pretty lady, the night is enfolding you,Drift, and so lightly, on crystalline streams.Wrapped in its perfumes, the darkness is holding you;Starlight bespangles the way of your dreams.Chorus the nightingales, wistfully amorous;Blessedly quiet, the blare of the day.All the sweet hours may your visions be glamorous,—Sleep, pretty lady, as long as you may.Sleep, pretty lady, the night shall be still for you;Silvered and silent, it watches your rest.Each little breeze, in its eagerness, will for youMurmur the melodies ancient and blest.So in the midnight does happiness capture us;Morning is dim with another day's tears.Give yourself sweetly to images rapturous,—Sleep, pretty lady, a couple of years.Sleep, pretty lady, the world awaits day with you;Girlish and golden, the slender young moon.Grant the fond darkness its mystical way with you,Morning returns to us ever too soon.Roses unfold, in their loveliness, all for you;Blossom the lilies for hope of your glance.When you're awake, all the men go and fall for you,—Sleep, pretty lady, and give me a chance.

Sleep, pretty lady, the night shall be still for you;Silvered and silent, it watches your rest.Each little breeze, in its eagerness, will for youMurmur the melodies ancient and blest.So in the midnight does happiness capture us;Morning is dim with another day's tears.Give yourself sweetly to images rapturous,—Sleep, pretty lady, a couple of years.

Sleep, pretty lady, the world awaits day with you;Girlish and golden, the slender young moon.Grant the fond darkness its mystical way with you,Morning returns to us ever too soon.Roses unfold, in their loveliness, all for you;Blossom the lilies for hope of your glance.When you're awake, all the men go and fall for you,—Sleep, pretty lady, and give me a chance.

Travel, trouble, music, art,A kiss, a frock, a rhyme,—I never said they feed my heart,But still they pass my time.

She's passing fair; but so demure is sheSo quiet is her gown, so smooth her hair,That few there are who note her and agreeShe's passing fair.Yet when was ever beauty held more rareThan simple heart and maiden modesty?What fostered charms with virtue could compare?Alas, no lover ever stops to see;The best that she is offered is the air.Yet—if the passing mark is minusD—She's passing fair.

She's passing fair; but so demure is sheSo quiet is her gown, so smooth her hair,That few there are who note her and agreeShe's passing fair.

Yet when was ever beauty held more rareThan simple heart and maiden modesty?What fostered charms with virtue could compare?

Alas, no lover ever stops to see;The best that she is offered is the air.Yet—if the passing mark is minusD—She's passing fair.

Oh, I can smile for you, and tilt my head,And drink your rushing words with eager lips,And paint my mouth for you a fragrant red,And trace your brows with tutored finger-tips.When you rehearse your list of loves to me,Oh, I can laugh and marvel, rapturous-eyed.And you laugh back, nor can you ever seeThe thousand little deaths my heart has died.And you believe, so well I know my part,That I am gay as morning, light as snow,And all the straining things within my heartYou'll never know.Oh, I can laugh and listen, when we meet,And you bring tales of fresh adventurings,—Of ladies delicately indiscreet,Of lingering hands, and gently whispered things.And you are pleased with me, and strive anewTo sing me sagas of your late delights.Thus do you want me—marveling, gay, and true,Nor do you see my staring eyes of nights.And when, in search of novelty, you stray,Oh, I can kiss you blithely as you go....And what goes on, my love, while you're away,You'll never know.

Oh, I can laugh and listen, when we meet,And you bring tales of fresh adventurings,—Of ladies delicately indiscreet,Of lingering hands, and gently whispered things.And you are pleased with me, and strive anewTo sing me sagas of your late delights.Thus do you want me—marveling, gay, and true,Nor do you see my staring eyes of nights.And when, in search of novelty, you stray,Oh, I can kiss you blithely as you go....And what goes on, my love, while you're away,You'll never know.

If I don't drive around the park,I'm pretty sure to make my mark.If I'm in bed each night by ten,I may get back my looks again,If I abstain from fun and such,I'll probably amount to much,But I shall stay the way I am,Because I do not give a damn.

I do not like my state of mind;I'm bitter, querulous, unkind.I hate my legs, I hate my hands,I do not yearn for lovelier lands.I dread the dawn's recurrent light;I hate to go to bed at night.I snoot at simple, earnest folk.I cannot take the gentlest joke.I find no peace in paint or type.My world is but a lot of tripe.I'm disillusioned, empty-breasted.For what I think, I'd be arrested.I am not sick, I am not well.My quondam dreams are shot to hell.My soul is crushed, my spirit sore;I do not like me any more.I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse.I ponder on the narrow house.I shudder at the thought of men....I'm due to fall in love again.

Say my love is easy had,Say I'm bitten raw with pride,Say I am too often sad,—Still behold me at your side.Say I'm neither brave nor young,Say I woo and coddle care,Say the devil touched my tongue,—Still you have my heart to wear.But say my verses do not scan,And I get me another man!

Say my love is easy had,Say I'm bitten raw with pride,Say I am too often sad,—Still behold me at your side.

Say I'm neither brave nor young,Say I woo and coddle care,Say the devil touched my tongue,—Still you have my heart to wear.

But say my verses do not scan,And I get me another man!

The same to me are sombre days and gay.Though joyous dawns the rosy morn, and bright,Because my dearest love is gone awayWithin my heart is melancholy night.My heart beats low in loneliness, despiteThat riotous Summer holds the earth in sway.In cerements my spirit is bedight;The same to me are sombre days and gay.Though breezes in the rippling grasses play,And waves dash high and far in glorious might,I thrill no longer to the sparkling day,Though joyous dawns the rosy morn, and bright.Ungraceful seems to me the swallow's flight;As well might Heaven's blue be sullen gray;My soul discerns no beauty in their sightBecause my dearest love is gone away.Let roses fling afar their crimson spray,And virgin daisies splash the fields with white,Let bloom the poppy hotly as it may,Within my heart is melancholy night.And this, oh love, my pitiable plightWhenever from my circling arms you stray;This little world of mine has lost its light....I hope to God, my dear, that you can sayThe same to me.

The same to me are sombre days and gay.Though joyous dawns the rosy morn, and bright,Because my dearest love is gone awayWithin my heart is melancholy night.

My heart beats low in loneliness, despiteThat riotous Summer holds the earth in sway.In cerements my spirit is bedight;The same to me are sombre days and gay.

Though breezes in the rippling grasses play,And waves dash high and far in glorious might,I thrill no longer to the sparkling day,Though joyous dawns the rosy morn, and bright.

Ungraceful seems to me the swallow's flight;As well might Heaven's blue be sullen gray;My soul discerns no beauty in their sightBecause my dearest love is gone away.

Let roses fling afar their crimson spray,And virgin daisies splash the fields with white,Let bloom the poppy hotly as it may,Within my heart is melancholy night.

And this, oh love, my pitiable plightWhenever from my circling arms you stray;This little world of mine has lost its light....I hope to God, my dear, that you can sayThe same to me.

Oh, both my shoes are shiny new,And pristine is my hat;My dress is 1922....My life is all like that.

He'd have given me rolling lands,Houses of marble, and billowing farms,Pearls, to trickle between my hands,Smoldering rubies, to circle my arms.You—you'd only a lilting song,Only a melody, happy and high,You were sudden and swift and strong,—ever a thought for another had I.He'd have given me laces rare,Dresses that glimmered with frosty sheen,Shining ribbons to wrap my hair,Horses to draw me, as fine as a queen.You—you'd only to whistle low,Gaily I followed wherever you led.I took you, and I let him go,—Somebody ought to examine my head!

He'd have given me laces rare,Dresses that glimmered with frosty sheen,Shining ribbons to wrap my hair,Horses to draw me, as fine as a queen.You—you'd only to whistle low,Gaily I followed wherever you led.I took you, and I let him go,—Somebody ought to examine my head!

Once the orioles sang in chorus,Once the skies were a cloudless blue.Spring bore blossoms expressly for us,Stars lined up to spell "Y-O-U."All the world wore a golden hue,Life was a thing to be bold and gay at;Love was the only game I knew,And love is a game that two can play at.Now the heavens are scowling o'er us,Now the blossoms are pale and few.Love was a rose with thorns that tore us,Love was a ship without a crew.Love is untender, and love is untrue,Love is a moon for a dog to bay at,Love is the Lady-That's-Known-as-Lou,And love is a game that two can play at.Recollections can only bore us;Now it's over, and now it's through.Our day is dead as a dinosaurus.Other the paths that you pursue.What is the girl in the case to do?What is she going to spend her day at?Fun demands, at a minimum, two—And love is a game that two can play at.L'ENVOI:Prince, I'm packing away the rue.I'll give them something to shout "Hooray" at.I've got somebody else in view:And love is a game that two can play at.

Now the heavens are scowling o'er us,Now the blossoms are pale and few.Love was a rose with thorns that tore us,Love was a ship without a crew.Love is untender, and love is untrue,Love is a moon for a dog to bay at,Love is the Lady-That's-Known-as-Lou,And love is a game that two can play at.

Recollections can only bore us;Now it's over, and now it's through.Our day is dead as a dinosaurus.Other the paths that you pursue.What is the girl in the case to do?What is she going to spend her day at?Fun demands, at a minimum, two—And love is a game that two can play at.

L'ENVOI:

Prince, I'm packing away the rue.I'll give them something to shout "Hooray" at.I've got somebody else in view:And love is a game that two can play at.

Woman wants monogamy;Man delights in novelty.Love is woman's moon and sun;Man has other forms of fun.Woman lives but in her lord;Count to ten, and man is bored.With this the gist and sum of it,What earthly good can come of it?

Daily dawns another day;I must up, to make my way.Though I dress and drink and eat,Move my fingers and my feet,Learn a little, here and there,Weep and laugh and sweat and swear,Hear a song, or watch a stage,Leave some words upon a page,Claim a foe, or hail a friend—Bed awaits me at the end.Though I go in pride and strength,I'll come back to bed at length.Though I walk in blinded woe,Back to bed I'm bound to go.High my heart, or bowed my head,All my days but lead to bed.Up, and out, and on; and thenEver back to bed again,Summer, Winter, Spring, and Fall—I'm a fool to rise at all!

Though I go in pride and strength,I'll come back to bed at length.Though I walk in blinded woe,Back to bed I'm bound to go.High my heart, or bowed my head,All my days but lead to bed.Up, and out, and on; and thenEver back to bed again,Summer, Winter, Spring, and Fall—I'm a fool to rise at all!

Oh, gallant was the first love, and glittering and fine;The second love was water, in a clear white cup;The third love was his, and the fourth was mine;And after that, I always get them all mixed up.

Now this is the story of Lucy Brown,A glittering jewel in virtue's crown.From earliest youth, she aspired to please.She never fell down and dirtied her knees;She put all her pennies in savings banks;She never omitted her "please" and "thanks";She swallowed her spinach without a squawk;And patiently listened to Teacher's talk;She thoughtfully stepped over worms and ants;And earnestly watered the potted plants;She didn't dismember expensive toys;And never would play with the little boys.And when to young womanhood Lucy cameHer mode of behavior was just the same.She always was safe in her home at dark;And never went riding around the park;She wouldn't put powder upon her nose;And petticoats sheltered her spotless hose;She knew how to market and mend and sweep;By quarter-past ten, she was sound asleep;In presence of elders, she held her tongue—The way that they did when the world was young.And people remarked, in benign accord,"You'll see that she gathers her just reward."Observe, their predictions were more than fair.She married an affluent millionaireSo gallant and handsome and wise and gay,And rated in Bradstreet at Double A.And she lived with him happily all her life,And made him a perfectly elegant wife.

And when to young womanhood Lucy cameHer mode of behavior was just the same.She always was safe in her home at dark;And never went riding around the park;She wouldn't put powder upon her nose;And petticoats sheltered her spotless hose;She knew how to market and mend and sweep;By quarter-past ten, she was sound asleep;In presence of elders, she held her tongue—The way that they did when the world was young.And people remarked, in benign accord,"You'll see that she gathers her just reward."

Observe, their predictions were more than fair.She married an affluent millionaireSo gallant and handsome and wise and gay,And rated in Bradstreet at Double A.And she lived with him happily all her life,And made him a perfectly elegant wife.

Now Marigold Jones, from her babyhood,Was bad as the model Miss Brown was good.She stuck out her tongue at her grieving nurse;She frequently rifled her Grandma's purse;She banged on the table and broke the plates;She jeered at the passing inebriates;And tore all her dresses and ripped her socks;And shattered the windows with fair-sized rocks;The words on the fences she'd memorize;She blackened her dear little brother's eyes;And cut off her sister's abundant curls;And never would play with the little girls.And when she grew up—as is hardly strange—Her manner of life underwent no changeBut faithfully followed her childhood plan.And once there was talk of a married man!She sauntered in public in draperiesAffording no secrecy to her knees;She constantly uttered what was not true;She flirted and petted, or what have you;And, tendered advice by her kind Mamma,Her answer, I shudder to state, was "Blah!"And people remarked, in sepulchral tones,"You'll see what becomes of Marigold Jones."Observe, their predictions were more than fair.She married an affluent millionaireSo gallant and handsome and wise and gay,And rated in Bradstreet at Double A.And she lived with him happily all her life,And made him a perfectly elegant wife.

And when she grew up—as is hardly strange—Her manner of life underwent no changeBut faithfully followed her childhood plan.And once there was talk of a married man!She sauntered in public in draperiesAffording no secrecy to her knees;She constantly uttered what was not true;She flirted and petted, or what have you;And, tendered advice by her kind Mamma,Her answer, I shudder to state, was "Blah!"And people remarked, in sepulchral tones,"You'll see what becomes of Marigold Jones."

Always I knew that it could not last(Gathering clouds, and the snowflakes flying),Now it is part of the golden past;(Darkening skies, and the night-wind sighing)It is but cowardice to pretend.Cover with ashes our love's cold crater,—Always I've known that it had to endSooner or later.Always I knew it would come like this(Pattering rain, and the grasses springing),Sweeter to you is a new love's kiss(Flickering sunshine, and young birds singing).Gone are the raptures that once we knew,Now you are finding a new joy greater,—Well, I'll be doing the same thing, too,Sooner or later.

Always I knew it would come like this(Pattering rain, and the grasses springing),Sweeter to you is a new love's kiss(Flickering sunshine, and young birds singing).Gone are the raptures that once we knew,Now you are finding a new joy greater,—Well, I'll be doing the same thing, too,Sooner or later.

The ladies men admire, I've heard,Would shudder at a wicked word.Their candle gives a single light;They'd rather stay at home at night.They do not keep awake till three,Nor read erotic poetry.They never sanction the impure,Nor recognize an overture.They shrink from powders and from paints ...So far, I've had no complaints.

There's a place I know where the birds swing low,And wayward vines go roaming,Where the lilacs nod, and a marble godIs pale, in scented gloaming.And at sunset there comes a lady fairWhose eyes are deep with yearning.By an old, old gate does the lady waitHer own true love's returning.But the days go by, and the lilacs die,And trembling birds seek cover;Yet the lady stands, with her long white handsHeld out to greet her lover.And it's there she'll stay till the shadowy dayA monument they grave her.She will always wait by the same old gate,—The gate her true love gave her.

But the days go by, and the lilacs die,And trembling birds seek cover;Yet the lady stands, with her long white handsHeld out to greet her lover.And it's there she'll stay till the shadowy dayA monument they grave her.She will always wait by the same old gate,—The gate her true love gave her.

Some men break your heart in two,Some men fawn and flatter,Some men never look at you;And that cleans up the matter.

They say of me, and so they should,It's doubtful if I come to good.I see acquaintances and friendsAccumulating dividends,And making enviable namesIn science, art, and parlor games.But I, despite expert advice,Keep doing things I think are nice,And though to good I never come—Inseparable my nose and thumb!

Love has had his way with me.This my heart is torn and maimedSince he took his play with me.Cruel well the bow-boy aimed,Shot, and saw the feathered shaftDripping bright and bitter red.He that shrugged his wings and laughed—Better had he left me dead.Sweet, why do you plead me, then,Who have bled so sore of that?Could I bear it once again? ...Drop a hat, dear, drop a hat!

Love has had his way with me.This my heart is torn and maimedSince he took his play with me.Cruel well the bow-boy aimed,

Shot, and saw the feathered shaftDripping bright and bitter red.He that shrugged his wings and laughed—Better had he left me dead.

Sweet, why do you plead me, then,Who have bled so sore of that?Could I bear it once again? ...Drop a hat, dear, drop a hat!

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