St. Paul daily globe. [volume] (Saint Paul, Minn.) 1884-1896, 1890-07-16
ABOUT LOVE.

A Passionate Poetess Tells What
She Thinks About the Master
Passion That Masters All.
Ida Lewis Watson in New York Mercury.
| wonder how many men in the
whole wide world understand what love
really is?
wonder how many women there
are?
They think they know, but whether
they really do is question.
How often man thinks he loves a
woman, when, after all. as her husband,
he is just simply trying to do his duty
by her out of calm, good-natured, I'M
impaSSiOned but generous heart.
He is her best friend.
He provides her with all needful phys
ical and material comforts.
He takes her out that she may enjoy
herself. He passes his evenings at
home that she may not become dull and
lonely.
He is always bringing her something
to please her, and loves to do it, and she
just lets him!
She thinks he loves her.
Perhaps he thinks so, too.
He does if there never comes before
him any other face to wake to life his
higher emotions and teach him, too
late, what love really means.
Poor, contented, pitiable mortals!
How they would both open wide eyes
OF amazement and perplexlty if they
were to heal me say that, wouldn't
they?
Don't you wish you were she? don't
wish were!
Why?
Well, let me ask you question:
Do you think if you had been born
blind, had never opened your eyes to
the beauties. the glories, the grandeurs
of the world, you would be contented,
being unconscious of the Joy that lies
in the experience of having seen and
having known all there is of the won
der and beauty of nature there is to be
seen and enjoyed?
Perhaps so, never having seen. But
is this the acknowledge that me ans
bliss?
1t may be the acknowledge of con-
tent, but it is the dead Inconsistencies
that brings tears of pity from eyes that
see and seeing rejoice.
Unless we see with our own eyes and
not with those of others; unless we hear
with our own ears and receive into our
SOulS, llNlHS dliu plCoCHt, We w liO1
know; albeit we hear from lips of those
who tell of these things.t to us the grand
reality is dead
Over the hills lies Italy; but, unless
we have lived beneath the blue, sunlit
skies, unlike all other skies, unless we
have plucked the scarlet blossoms of
the oleander and wild poppy and have
held to our lips the white magnolias.
have felt the fresh winds blowing over
us the fragrance of the sea, through the
shadowy marble ways, in the stiffness Of
the night. in the last throb of quicken
ing pulses have felt the touch of lovers
lips in the soft silence, his signs that
died away in careSS, then we have
never known the "city of lilies, the
amorous city, built In field of flowers"
Italy, the paradise of love! And so,
have said, friendship is not love, and
those who have never found out the
difference are poor and pitiable, indeed! !
Their ignorance can never be bliss,
the bliss that love and loves sweet pas
sion brings!
A woman who finds her happiness in
''being loved" in such ways as physical
comforts alone provide, who receives
what her husband prOffers from his
hands and not his heart. and is content,
can never understand what love is:
The thrill that makes the blood as liquid fire.
The passion knowing but loves sweet desire,
The love that knows but 10 aspire
TO love- return.