Desire and longing are the whips of God.
I desire Virtue, though I love her not-
I have no faith in her when she is got:
I fear that she will bind and make me slave
And send me songless to the sullen grave.
Kinder the enemy who must malign us Than the smug friend who will define us
It is well within the order of things
That man should listen when his mate sings;
But the true male never yet walked
Who liked to listen when his mate talked.
I feel that women of my kind are a profound mistake. There have been few women poets of distinction, and, if we count only the suicides of Sappho, Lawrence Hope and Charlotte Mew, their despair rate has been very high.
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