“So I wasn’t lovable,
So I was an untamable, wild thing.
I kicked and spat and did not smile
at men because they looked at me. Woman?
I preferred animal – Just me and my moors,
that freezing chill
that reddened my cheeks
more than flattery ever could. My words poured out of me not like flowers blooming
but like wasps from their nest,
they, like me, were not meant to be pretty.”
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: Its lovliness increases; it will never Pass into nothingness; but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
‘Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake, Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms: And such too is the grandeur of the dooms We have imagined for the mighty dead; An endless fountain of immortal drink, Pouring unto us from the heaven’s brink.