that candidly told her
  That she is but for a space, an ad-interim solace and
       pleasure,—­
  That in the end she shall yield to a perfect and absolute something,
  Which I then for myself shall behold, and not another,—­
  Which amid fondest endearments, meantime I forget not, forsake not. 
  Ah, ye feminine souls, so loving and so exacting,
  Since we cannot escape, must we even submit to deceive you? 
  Since, so cruel is truth, sincerity shocks and revolts you,
  Will you have us your slaves to lie to you, flatter and—­leave you?

  VII.—­CLAUDE TO EUSTACE.

  Juxtaposition is great,—­but, you tell me, affinity greater. 
  Ah, my friend, there are many affinities, greater and lesser,
  Stronger and weaker; and each, by the favor of juxtaposition,
  Potent, efficient, in force,—­for a time; but none, let me tell you,
  Save by the law of the land and the ruinous force of the will, ah,
  None, I fear me, at last quite sure to be final and perfect. 
    Lo, as I pace in the street, from the peasant-girl to the princess,
  Homo sum, nihil humani a me alienum puto,—­
  Vir sum, nihil faeminei,—­and e’en to the uttermost circle,
  All that is Nature’s is I, and I all things that are Nature’s. 
  Yes, as I walk, I behold, in a luminous, large intuition,
  That I can be and become anything that I meet with or look at: 
  I am the ox in the dray, the ass with the garden-stuff panniers;
  I am the dog in the doorway, the kitten that plays in the window,
  Here on the stones of the ruin the furtive and fugitive lizard,
  Swallow above me that twitters, and fly that is buzzing about me;
  Yea, and detect, as I go, by a faint, but a faithful assurance,
  E’en from the stones of the street, as from rocks or trees of the
       forest,
  Something of kindred, a common, though latent vitality, greet me,
  And, to escape from our strivings, mistakings, misgrowths, and
       perversions,
  Fain could demand to return to that perfect and primitive silence,
  Fain be enfolded and fixed, as of old, in their rigid embraces.

  VIII.—­CLAUDE TO EUSTACE.

  And as I walk on my way, I behold them consorting and coupling;
  Faithful it seemeth, and fond, very fond, very probably faithful;
  And I proceed on my way with a pleasure sincere and unmingled. 
    Life is beautiful, Eustace, entrancing, enchanting to look at;
  As are the streets of a city we pace while the carriage is changing,
  As is a chamber filled-in with harmonious, exquisite pictures,
  Even so beautiful Earth; and could we eliminate only
  This vile hungering impulse, this demon within us of craving,
  Life were beatitude, living a perfect divine satisfaction.

  IX.—­CLAUDE TO EUSTACE.