In this poem of his, and in many others, "Adonis" has restored to woman much of the greatness of which certain souls had robbed her, or nearly so; with burning letters he has lifted her above the superficiality of existence to where she finds an abode in the worlds of the soul, in which she lives and by which she rises. In many of his splendid poems he has likewise shown that woman is a continuous gift to the universe, whose spring never runs dry and whose flowers never wither.

"Adonis" has never, in his poetry, sung of a woman's burning lip, nor described her breast; nor has he ever mentioned her in matter without its being wedded to spirit — she may be touched and felt, but she is never disfigured. Woman has read a great deal about herself, but I believe with full confidence that she has never seen nor read herself as "Adonis" has drawn her: creative, original, hers the universe in all its breadth, and from her its radiant light.

How far, then, is woman in the eyes of man from woman in the eyes of a poet like "Adonis" — this creature molded of tenderness and love? Where else could she find an echo of her deep self such as she has found in a poem like this, and in the other poems "Adonis" sends to her out of firm conviction and with the sincerity of the faithful, expecting from her no

reward and acknowledging nothing but what issues from his innermost depths, from his own soul.

This is woman in the world of "Adonis" — indeed in his mind and his heart and on his brush, faithful to this part that completes the sound society: woman the mother, woman the wife, woman the sister — indeed,

woman the universe, as he has defined her and defines her always.

I feel myself, "as a woman," grow and become greater whenever I read a piece by Adonis or hear something of his; and I feel myself a roaring revolu-tion whenever I read his patriotic verse. Adonis is a mass of true faith, a mass of overflowing feeling and a balanced mind — indeed, he is a tomorrow that smiles upon goodness, beauty, and creation...

Could any woman ever sing herself as he has sung her, in letters poured out of his spirit — a spirit

whose existence our poets and men of letters never felt before as he has felt it! He has raised her to the worlds of the gods, made of her the power latent in the soul of man, and created from her a tender world that floods the universe with love, beauty, and pride...

This is the woman "Adonis" has sung: he has pictured her strong in her despair, and in

her deprivation filled from her own self and her own existence — wanting to live, wanting her fragrance to breathe through the corners of that which has been called man's "heart," so that she sends forth from it her beauty, and sends forth burning flames of herself which she scatters over the dark corners of his soul, waking life within them and sending them light!

This is the woman "Adonis" has sung — even though she has denied herself and sunk exhausted beneath her burden.