That they who drew the sword in groundless hope
Sheathe it in sure despair? Despair! Good God!
For a poor creature like myself, despair!
That men with souls to which a word like that
Lengthens to infinite significance,
Should pin it on a wretched woman’s sleeve!
But as men talk—I mean, so far as I
Can make them, as they say, despair of that
Of which, even for this world’s happiness,
Despair is better hope of better things—