pity
that all loves can not remain in just that idyllic, milkmaid stage, where
the girls and boys awaken in the early morning with the birds, and hasten
forth barefoot across the dewy fields to find the cows. But love never
tarries. Love is progressive; it can not stand still. I have heard of the
"passiveness" of woman's love, but the passive woman is only one who does
not love--she merely consents to have affection lavished upon her. When I
hear of a passive woman, I always think of the befuddled sailor who once
saw one of those dummy dress-frames, all duly clothed in flaming bombazine
(I think it was bombazine) in front of a clothing establishment. The
sailor, mistaking the dummy for a near and dear lady friend, embraced the
wire apparatus and imprinted a resounding smack on the chaste
plaster-of-Paris cheek. Meeting the sure-enough lady shortly after, he
upbraided her for her cold passivity on the occasion named.

A passive woman--one who consents to be loved--should seek occupation
among those worthy firms who warrant a fit in ready-made gowns, or money
refunded.

Love is progressive--it hastens onward like the brook hurrying to the sea.
They say that love is blind: love may be short-sighted, or inclined to
strabismus, or may see things out of their true proportion, magnifying
pleasant little ways into seraphic virtues, but love is not really
blind--the bandage is never so tight but that it can peep. The only kind
of love that is really blind and deaf is Platonic love. Platonic love
hasn't the slightest idea where it is going, and so there are surprises
and shocks in store for it. The other kind, with eyes wide open, is
better. I know a man who has tried both. Love is progressive. All things
that live should progress. To stand still is to retreat, and to retreat
is death. Love dies, of course. All things die, or become something else.
And often they become something else by dying. Behold the eternal Paradox!
The love that evolves into a higher form is the better kind. Nature is
intent on evolution, yet of the myriads of spores that cover earth, most
of them are doomed to death; and of the countless rays sent out by the
sun, the number that fall athwart this planet are infinitesimal. Edward
Carpenter calls attention to the fact that disappointed love--that is,
love that is "lost"--often affects the individual for the highest good.
But the real fact is, nothing is ever lost. Love in its essence is a
spiritual emotio