The sculptor, man, in woman mostly sees

The clay of which to model gods of love.

Some, cunning little cupids only are,

The little rascal gods of light flirtation,

Who like the fire-flies on a summer night

Are luminous a moment—and that’s all.

While others are the serious gods of love,

Majestic and intense as life itself,

Mysterious and perplexing as the Sphinx,

Relentless as the furies or as death,

As maddening as poison of the snake,

As soothing as is balm upon a wound,

And sweet as that which passeth understanding.

As sweet as that and sometimes just as bitter.

Such are the statues man, the sculptor, moulds

Of woman—clay.