Women

Women have no wilderness in them,

They are provident instead,

Content in the tight hot cell of their

To eat dusty bread.

They do not see cattle cropping red winter grass,

They do not

Snow water going down under

Shallow and clear.

They wait, when they should turn to journeys,

They stiffen, when they should bend.

They use against themselves that

To which no man is friend.

They cannot think of so many crops to a

Or of clean wood cleft by an axe.

Their love is an eager

Too tense, or too lax.

They hear in every whisper that speaks to themA shout and a cry.

As like as not, when they take life over their

They should let it go by.