I am ashamed, I hide—
What right have I to be a
Bride,
So late a dowerless girl?
Nowhere to hide my dazzled
Face,
No one to teach me that new
Grace,
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 Pompadour
For me, my soul, to wear.
Fingers to frame my round hair
Oval—as feudal ladies wore,
Far fashions fair,
Skill to hold my brow like an earl,
Plead like a whippoorwill,
Prove like a pearl.
Then for character
Fashion my spirit quaint, while
Quick like a liquor,
Gay like Light
Bring me my best pride.
No more ashamed,
No more to hide,
Meek, let it be—
Too proud for pride,
Baptized this day
A Bride.
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