Lady, Lady

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.