What is this woman, but a waking song
That rises from my throat when'er she sings?
"Tis joy to be a poet when I know
But that I wrote she might be doomed to cling
To some crude notion of the creature she,
Some earth bound shrew of labours shorn of love,
The deadly round of kettles, pots and socks,
The worship of the fate she's victim of.
So let me write, and let her being sing;
She needs my verses sure to know her soul;
But know the gift I bring could never be
Were she not by to guide my searching pen.
And that's the gift of living, don't you see,
That women, being loved, must give to men.
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