and utterly disregardless of the truth. Of the keenest intuitions, yet gullible, Easily used at times, of erratic judgment, Analytic but pursuing with incredible swiftness The falsest trails to her own undoing—      All in all the strangest mixture of colors and scent Derived from father and mother, But mixed by whom, and how, and why? Now for the son named Herman, rebel soul. His brow was like a loaf of bread, his eyes Turned from his father's blue to gray, his nose Was like his mother's, skin was dark like hers. His shapely body, hands and feet belonged To some patrician face, not to Marat's. And his was like Marat's, fanatical, Materialistic, fierce, as it might guide A reptile's crawl, but yet he crawled to peaks Loving the hues of mists, but not the mists His father loved. And being a rebel soul He thought the world all wrong. A nothingness Moving as malice marred the life of man.      'Twas man's great work to fight this Giant Fraud, And all who praise and serve Him. 'Tis for man To free the world from error, suffer, die For liberty of thought. You see his mother Is in possession of one part of him, Or all of him for some time. So he lives Nursing the dream (like father he's a dreamer)      That genius fires him. All the while a gift For analytics stored behind that brow, That bulges like a loaf of bread, is all Of which he well may boast above the man He hates as but a slave of faith and fear. He feeds luxurious doubt with Omar Khyam, But for long years neglects the jug of wine. And as for "thou" he does not wake for years, Is a pure maiden when he weds, the grains Run counter in him, end in knots at times. He takes from father certain tastes and traits, From mother certain others, one can see His mother's sex re-actions to his father, Not passed to him to make him celibate, But holding back in sleeping passions which      Burst over bounds at last in lust, not love. Not love since that great engine in the brow Tears off the irised wings of love and bares The poor worm's body where the wings had been:      What is it but desire? Such stuff in rhyme In music over what is but desire, And ends when that is satisfied! He's a crank. And follows all the psychic thrills which run To cackles o'er the world. It's Looking Backward, Or Robert Elsmere, Spencer's Social Statics, It's socialism, Anarchism, Peace, It's non-resistance with a swelling heart, As who should say how truer to the faith Of Jesus am I, without hope 

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