Name her, did I, as being duteous?—
Who ‘mean’ I then?—You little fluttering bird
Suppose you were some actual little bird,
How would you tell whence came or whither went
The wind that ruff’d your feathers?—Do you know,
You women always will match thoughts to things?
You chat as birds chirp, when their mates grow bright:
You love when comes a look that smiles on you.
We men are more creative. We love love,
Our own ideal long before aught real: