Ring for a wedding⁠—but who was the man beside her? He had a face made up of too many faces. And yet, a young girl must marry⁠— You may dance, Play in the sun and wear bright gowns to levees, But soon or late, the hands unlike to your hands But rough and seeking, will catch your lightness at last And with strange passion force you. What is this passion, This injury that women must bear for gowns? It does not move me or stir me. I will not bear it. There are women enough to bear it. If I have sweetness, It is for another service. It is my own. I will not share it. I’ll play in the heat of the sun. And yet, young girls must marry⁠—what am I thinking?