Because I am a woman, I must be
Silent, nor hint that this has come to pass:
Hushing what I could sing so easily;
Hiding my gold to give you sounding brass.
Dearer than music is, than sun; more dear
Than all the quick I love—than all the dead,
I may not whisper that the spring is here,
Keeping my house for me; with luminous thread
Embroidering all my days. I may not tell:
Yet I am suddenly too small to hold
Such gladness. It will no more fit and fold
Than sentient feathers in a crowded shell.
Some night, some morning, when we are alone,
This foolish reason will be overthrown.