These Are My Daughters, I Suppose. But

Women Are The Fulfilled Sex. Through Our Children We Are Able To Produce Our Own Immortality, So We Lack That Divine Restlessness Which Sends Men Charging Off In Pursuit Of Fortune Or Fame Or An Imagined Utopia. That Is Why We Number So Few Geniuses Among Us. The Wholesome Oyster Wears No Pearl, The Healthy Whale No Ambergris, And As Long As We Can Keep On Adding To The Race, We Harbor A Sort Of Health Within Ourselves.

Mere Wealth, I Am Above It, / It Is The Reputation Wide, / The Playwright's Pomp, The Poet's Pride / That Eagerly I Covet.

Of The Small Gifts Of Heaven, / It Seems To Me A More Than Equal Share / At Birth Was Given / To Girls With Curly Hair.

For The Hearts Of Nurses Are Solid Gold, / But Their Heels Are Flat And Their Hands Are Cold, / And Their Voices Lilt With A Lilt That's Falser / Than The Smile Of An Exhibition Waltzer. / Yes, Nurses Can Cure You, Nurses Restore You, / But Nurses Are Bound That They Do Things For You.

People Are No Longer Sinful, They Are Only Immature Or Underprivileged Or Frightened Or, More Particularly, Sick.