Periodicity

My friend declares Being woman and virgin she Takes small account of periodicity And she is right. Her days are calmly spent For her sex-function is irrelevant. But I whose life Is monthly broke in twain Must seek some sort of meaning in my pain. Women, I say, Are beautiful in change, Remote, immortal, like the moon they range. Or call my pain A skirmish in the whole Tremendous conflict between body and soul. Meaning must lie, Some beauty surely dwell In the fierce depths and uttermost pits of hell. Yet still I seek, Month after month in vain, Meaning and beauty in recurrent pain.