Her childishness obscures her womanhood.
When was I ever conscious in her presence
That she was bodily formed like other women
With womb for bearing and with breasts for suckling,
With power, when she desired, to rouse in me
By but the slightest art in diminution
Of her accustomed childish truthfulness,
A word or gesture hinting doubtfulness,
The angry stream flooding beyond restraint?
And yet no frisky wraith has come to-night