I would not be a fragile flower
To languish in a lady’s bower,
A silken thing of texture rare
That fears to meet God’s blessed air;
My life a water, stagnant, low,
Without an ebb, without a flow;
Chained like a captive to his oar
To toil on, on, forevermore!
And supplicate with frantic cry
For the “poor privilege to die”;