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.
