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From the Antique

by
 It's a weary life, it is, she said: 
Doubly blank in a woman's lot: 
I wish and I wish I were a man: 
Or, better then any being, were not:

Were nothing at all in all the world, 
Not a body and not a soul: 
Not so much as a grain of dust 
Or a drop of water from pole to pole.
Still the world would wag on the same, Still the seasons go and come: Blossoms bloom as in days of old, Cherries ripen and wild bees hum.
None would miss me in all the world, How much less would care or weep: I should be nothing, while all the rest Would wake and weary and fall asleep.

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