INDIVIDUAL LOVE

fiowing straight from divine sources. He insists that it must be passionate if it is to be pure. He would disentangle it from stuffy rooms and upholstery (Walt Whitman cried, " I swear I will never mention Love or Death inside a house ' ' ) and lead it out into the fragrant bushy woods and under the stars. In every sensé, it is preeminently a thing for the open. There must be a certain wildness about it, an abandon, an enthusiasm of acceptance and dévotion. It is not a pastime, it is a career. It is not a toy, it is even as an agony of création. It is not a game, it is a strife. It is not merely an occasion for marriage, it is the ultimate human sanctity. A man who refuses its call, for any selfish reason, is life's fool, naturels failure, and God's sorrow. A sodety which relegates it indoors, banishes it from its streets as shameless, puts a hand over its mouth and stifles its wild rapturous song, hedges it about with indécent proprieties, makes it impossible by its économie conditions for young healthy people to consummate love' s purposes in the créative joy of parenthood, is inwardly rotten and under sentence of death. It is the basis of ail morality. It is the meaning of ail religion. In chanting its praises, Carpenter rises to heights of impassioned and inspiring poetry.

Not because thou art iair ;

Not because thine eyes glance winningly, nor because of the sly arch of thine eyebrows ;

Not because thy voiceis like music played in the open air.

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