By the fettering fingers of her who was woman alone,
Molded and spurred by desire,
Knowing only the need
Of a kiss for the cup of her throat,
Of a child for the curve of her arm.
To-day I am woman,
Less—yet a little more;
For I am learning to sing
Not his, nor another’s, but mine own song,
That has lain in my heart since the first day.