Not a soft breast to ease my tired head, Not a soft brain by which my own must glitter, Not a mere woman for a restless bed, Who kneels before such ancient shameful clatter As "Man is woman's lord!" "Let man play freely With lesser women, while his mate chills pure!" I hold that such a one is far from holy, An anemic relic impossible to endure. I face the world, sword out, the wall at my back: Who stands beside me with her bared blade? I step like dusk the shyest woodland track: Who drifts by me through sun-glow and shade? My winged breast cleaves clouds, and warms the sky: When was there eagle's mate, that could not fly? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE LITTLE HILL by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY ALAS! by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS FRAGMENT by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES THE BOOK OF LOS by WILLIAM BLAKE THE ADVANCE GUARD by BERTON BRALEY TEN YEARS HAVE PASSED; ON VIEWING WAR GRAVES AT VERDUN, 1928 by DON MAITLAND BUSHBY |