Classic Poem

Sometimes when I go to rest
I lie and struggle for expression,
And failing, fall to sick depression,
And beat my breast.

By blows, I cannot 'scape
The utter irritation
Of my poor soul's frustration,
For so I know my shape.

And often have I found
An added sadness,
Bringing me to madness,
Because my breast is round.

How can I, being woman,
Dedicate nights
Which should be sacred to delights,
To this lust of words, which is so broadly human!

But through the well-clothed days
I can forget my skirt;
I hide my breast beneath a workman's shirt,
And hunt the perfect phrase.