Yesterday, for an hour, I was gay.
Yesterday, for an hour, in the city,
In a scientific kind of way.
In a pure and contemplative mood,
I realized women’s faces
Were less handsome male faces—
So I wondered why I loved female faces
More, as a rule. Was my question intellectual,
A trick of the duality of the soul?
Faced with “handsome,” we call the opposite, “pretty,”
And both, for the sake of peace, are given dignity.
The small chin, the indecisive nose,
The delicate neck: she is my rose.
Women have prettier hair! And dangling ear rings!
And low notes are the same ones the soprano sings.
Worship woman, not from any calculation of more, or less.
Worship woman, and not because she wears a flimsier dress.
We love opposites, but there is only one thing we must confess:
“No man is perfect—and equal is perfect to me.
I love you, darling—and I guess the reason is a mystery.”
The idea of the opposite is strong
And effective, but in truth, the whole idea is wrong.
Opposites have differences, but only one quality as a quality excels:
You, with the uncommon face, you, breathing heavily, isn’t that you?
Only beauty, one as one, announces itself, and tells
The many: this one is the one that matters, and leaves
You surrounded by a mass of sheep, alert, and the lamb, apart, who grieves.