Sonnet

MY soul surcharged with grief now loud complains,

And fears upon my spirit heavily weigh,

“Thy poem we have heard,” the people say,

“Who like to thee can sing melodious strains?”

“They’re naught but sparks,” outspeaks my soul in chains,

“Struck from my life by torture every day.

But now all perfume’s fled—no more my lay

Shall rise; for, fear of shame my song restrains.”

A woman’s fancies lightly roam, and weave

Themselves into a fairy web. Should I

Refrain? Ah! soon enough this pleasure, too,

Will flee! Verily I cannot conceive

Why I’m extolled. For woman ’tis to ply

The spinning wheel—then to herself she’s true.