Lady, Lady, I saw your face, Dark as night withholding a star . . . The chisel fell, or it might have been You had borne so long the yoke of men.

Lady, Lady, I saw your hands, Twisted, awry, like crumpled roots, Bleached poor white in a sudsy tub, Wrinkled and drawn from your rub-a-dub.

Lady, Lady, I saw your heart, And altared there in its darksome place Were the tongues of flame the ancients knew, Where the good God sits to spangle through.