Cassandra

To me, one silly task is like another.

I bare the shambling tricks of lust and pride.

This flesh will never give a child its mother,—

Song, like a wing, tears through my breast, my side,

And madness chooses out my voice again,

Again. I am the chosen no hand saves:

The shrieking heaven lifted over men,

Not the dumb earth, wherein they set their graves.