Everything we love
puts on features of
all that we loved before,
and perhaps of all
that we ever shall.
We love a landscape or
a picture or a face
—person, thing and place,
though we may love it for
(it seems) its own unique
self—yet they partake
of one another and
the others of their kind.
Sex is everywhere
as Freud made us aware,
and he was surely right
but wrong surely to say
the traffic is one-way.
Sex lends her delight
to every joy, her stress
to all our wickedness,
yet’s as much taker quite
as giver—throws upon
her basic monotone
scents, colours, notes, the whole
dream-treasury of the soul.