Modern Love: XXXI

This golden head has wit in it. I live Again, and a far higher life, near her. Some women like a young philosopher; Perchance because he is diminutive. For woman’s manly god must not exceed Proportions of the natural nursing size. Great poets and great sages draw no prize With women: but the little lap-dog breed, Who can be hugged, or on a mantel-piece Perched up for adoration, these obtain Her homage. And of this we men are vain? Of this! ’T is ordered for the world’s increase! Small flattery! Yet she has that rare gift To beauty, Common Sense. I am approved. It is not half so nice as being loved, And yet I do prefer it. What’s my drift?