She had produced the boy in the world's early manner, lightly, without any of the tragic modern hovering over death to give the life.

Gower compared it to a 'flush of the vernal orchard after a day's drink of sunlight.' That was well: that was how it should be.

One loathes the idea of tortured women.
The good fellow was perhaps absurdly poetical.

Still we must have poetry to hallow this and other forms of energy: or say, if you like, the right view of them impels to poetry.

Otherwise we are in the breeding yards, among the litters and the farrows.