I Am Woman

I am woman: Old as Lebanon cedars—and far older; Young as the freshest green shoot That peeps through the snow in the March time. My face is turned to the East Pink with the dawn of my promise; My hands are clutched from behind By the fettering fingers of her who was woman alone, Molded and spurred by desire, Knowing only the need Of a kiss for the cup of her throat, Of a child for the curve of her arm. To-day I am woman, Less—yet a little more; For I am learning to sing Not his, nor another’s, but mine own song, That has lain in my heart since the first day. A great golden song it shall be Though not always soft with sweet cadence, For I must travail to sing: I am learning To feed upon nothing, yet fill me; To warm my chill limbs without fire; To go on my way, without kiss, without child, Though my lip is red, my arm willing. Yet I know I shall never cease Till I have sung it all— All to the very last note. Still I shall be woman In all the long days to come That beckon to me in the pink dawn; My song shall grow sweetly familiar, And he who was frightened shall draw near Singing his separate song, Ever his own and yet blending Its virile strains with mine; So we shall raise a great harmony Enfolding the world in our music, Rejoicing again in our marriage. One day that shall be .... But to-day I am weary— The East is rosy with promise of dawn.