Excerpt From Self-Portrait

I CAN forgo but not forgive:
Implacable and primitive,
I am no mother, no, nor wife,
No woman even, now my life
Is thrice a sorrow, thrice a joy.
Too much a coward for a boy —
Too tired, too petty, and too mean
To be a child. Too tinged with green
To be a man. Too old, too odd
To be a girl. Too frank, by God,
To be a woman. I have none
Of age’s wisdom. One by one
The phases go. My rightful role
Is dowager. God rest my soul!