PARADISE LOST AND FOUND
Eve, to tell truth, was not deceived;
The snake's word seemed to tally
With something she herself conceived,
Sick of her happy valley.
The place amused her for a bit,
(Some think 'twas half a day)
Then came, alas! a desperate fit
Of neurasthenia.
She tired of lions bland and grand,
She tired of thornless roses,
She felt she could no longer stand
Her Adam's courtly glozes.
His “graceful consort,” “spouse adored,”
His amorous-pious lectures;
She found herself supremely bored,
If one may risk conjectures.
“Would he but scold for once!” sighed she,
“De haut en bas caressings,
Qualified by astronomy,
Prove scarce unmingled blessings.”
She strolled; fine gentlemen in wings
Would deftly light and stop her;
She looked demure; half-missed her “things,”
Half feared 'twas not quite proper.
They asked for Adam, always him,
Each affable Archangel,
Nor heeded charms of neck or limb,
Big with their stale evangel.
They dined; her cookery instinct stirred;
A dinner grew a dream,
Not berries cold, eternal curd,
And everlasting cream.
Boon fruit was hers, but tame in sooth;
One thought her soul would grapple—
To get her little ivory tooth
Deep in some wicked apple.
So, when that sinuous cavalier
Spired near the tree of evil,
The woman hasted to draw near;
Such luck!—the genuine devil!
And Satan, who to man had lied,
Man ever prone to palter,
The franker course with woman tried,
Assured she would not falter.
He spoke of freedom and its pains,
Of passion and its sorrow,
Of sacrifice, and nobler gains
Wrung from a dark to-morrow.
He did not shirk the names of death,
Worn heart, a night of tears—
If here the woman caught her breath,
She dared to face her fears.
Perhaps he touched on pretty needs,
Named frill, flounce, furbelow,
Perhaps referred to sable weeds,
And dignity in woe.
Glowed like two rose-leaves both ear-lobes,
White grew her lips and set,
The sly snake picturing small white robes,
A roseate bassinet.
He smiled; then squarely told the curse,
Birth-pang, a lord and master;
She hung her head—“It might be worse,
It seems no huge disaster.”
She mused—“A sin's a sin at most;
Life's joy outweighs my sentence;
What of my man, who now can boast
A virtue so portentous?
Best for him too! Sweat, workman's groan
And death which makes us even;
I want a sinner of my own,
Who finds my breast his heaven.”
Our General Mother, which is true
This tale, or that old story,
Tradition's fable convenue
Fashioned for Jahveh's glory?
