Sex isn’t sin, ah no! sex isn’t sin,
nor is it dirty, not until the dirty mind pokes
in.
We shall do as we like, sin is obsolete, the young
assert.
Sin is obsolete, sin is obsolete, but not so
dirt.
And sex, alas, gets dirtier and dirtier, worked from the
mind.
Sex gets dirtier and dirtier, the more it is fooled with, we
find.
And dirt, if it isn’t sin, is worse, so there you
are!
Why don’t you know what’s what, young people? seems to me
you’re
far
duller than your grandmothers. But leave that aside.
Let’s be honest at last about sex, or show at least that we’ve
tried.
Sex isn’t sin, it’s a delicate flow between women and
men,
and the sin is to damage the flow, force it up or dirty it or
suppress it
again.
Sex isn’t something you’ve got to play with; sex is
you.
It’s the flow of your life, it’s your moving self, and you are
due
to be true to the nature of it, its reserve, its sensitive
pride
that it always has to begin with, and by which you ought to
abide.
Know yourself, O know yourself, that you are mortal; and
know.
the sensitive delicacy of your sex, in its ebbing to and
fro,
and the mortal reserve of your sex, as it stays in your depths
below.
And don’t, with the nasty, prying mind, drag if out from
its deeps
and finger it and force it, and shatter the rhythm it
keeps
when it’s left alone, as it stirs and rouses and
sleeps.
O — know yourself, O know your sex! You must know, there
is no
escape.
You must know sex in order to save it, your deepest self, from the
rape
of the itching mind and the mental self, with its pruriency
always
agape.