Not like a pussywillow she was, Soft, enchanting, Bursting into silver beauty When the first warmth of spring Shone upon her; Nor like the rose Unfolding its fragile petals Until its fragrant loveliness Entranced the world; But, rather, like the nuts of autumn, Rich, delicious, nourishing, She had slowly developed And stood Waiting, Ready for sacrifice. Let the cold winds blow! Inside her prickly shell she would not care. Let the frosts come! Yet they called her an "Old Maid," They who did not understand. |