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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 fear!

 

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

 

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