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I am ashamed, I hide—What right have I to be aBride,So late a dowerless girl?Nowhere to hide my dazzledFace,No one to teach me that newGrace,Nor introduce my soul.
Me to adorn, how, tell—Trinket to make me beautiful,Fabrics of cashmere—Never a gown of dun, more,Raiment instead of PompadourFor me, my soul, to wear.
Fingers to frame my round hairOval—as feudal ladies wore,Far fashions fair,Skill to hold my brow like an earl,Plead like a whippoorwill,Prove like a pearl.
