A voice from the dark is calling me.
Beyond the bars I see her move,
come to tell me in the silence of the night.

Do you hear the children weeping, O my brothers?
Evolution fall foul of all.
Forbear, bold youth, all’s Heaven here.

Grain-mother, thou art still our mother: now
He fumbles at your soul: I am the centre.
Let her be seen, a voice on the platform, heard

Men go to women mutely for their peace —
No Phoenix pen, nor Spenser’s poetry —
Often rebuked, yet always back returning.

She walketh veiled and sleeping,
the doubt of future foes exiles our present joy,
We, that are held of you in narrow chains.

You swing of necessity into male rhythms.

. . . . . . .

spb: so