How beautiful these women are – o, they surroundeth me!
I scarcely know the place in which I should belong shall be;
before the warming fire’s flicker in her library
or under naked branches of another’s winter tree.
I must confess to my own faults, priestess is there to hear
How in the night I toss and turn, not for another year
Whence God is turned against me; o, to God I am not dear!
For other children at the school, they say, it’s me they
I am but young, my time has come, I step upon the stage
But when it is my turn to shout I can’t express my rage
I am no actor, all I am is woman in a cage
I am but writ upon a line of life’s forsaken page