To-morrow
AMONG my other gifts I own also Wantonness. In proof of which I am wishing as I sit here for a Thousand careless kisses: eleven o'clock of still evening—a Thousand Kisses.
A wonderful, wonderful attribute, Wantonness: rich, rich luster in the conscious temperament which owns it, a Gift-thing delicate and gorgeous.
By it I want a Thousand Kisses: a Thousand—made all of Wantonness.
Kisses come in differing kinds and only one is Wanton.
The kiss of a lover has an intense cosmic use: the kiss of a mother is tender fostering food: the kiss of a friend is vantage and grace of friendliness: the kiss of a child is cool charm of snowflakes and green springtime leaves.
And the kiss of Wantonness is not of use, nor of food, nor of gracing vantage, nor of childhood charm—but is restless essence of humanness and worldliness and mere sheer limitless encompassing liking: born of sweet lips, alien it might be, and secretly 'unattuned,' but warm and fond and present: answering the pathos of infinite jejuneness which flows, flows always in red human blood.
Through the race rides a long dread wistfulness,
