Classic Poem

O Nature, thou to me was cruel,
That made me up so small a jewel;
I am so small I cannot shine
Amidst the great that read my rhyme.
When men of genius pass me by,
I am so small they can't descry
One little mark or single trace
Of Burns' science in my face.
Those publications that I sold,
Some typed in blue and some on gold,
Learned critics who have seen them
Says origin dwells within them;
But when myself perchance they see.
They laugh and say, " O is it she?
Well, I think the little boaster
Is nothing but a fair impostor;
She looks so poor-like and so small,
She's next unto a nought-at-all;
Such wit and words quite out-furl
The learning of " A Factory Girl. " "
At first they do my name exalt,
And with my works find little fault;
But when upon myself they gaze,
They say some other claims the praise.
O Nature, had'st thou taken time
And made me up somewhat sublime,
With handsome form and pretty face,
And eyes of language — smiles of grace;
With snowy brow and ringlets fair,
A beauty quite beyond compare;
Winning the charms of fortune's smile.
Still dressed in grandeur all the while;
Then those who see me would believe
I never tried for to deceive
By bringing out a publication
Of borrowed lines or yet quotation.
But those who see me in this dress,
So small and thin I must confess,
Well may they dare the words to use.
Can such a vase distil Love's muse;
Well may they ask dare I profess
The talent of an authoress?
Oh who could deem to gaze on me,
That e'er I mused on land or sea,
That I have sat in shady bower
Musing on thy fairest flower;
That I have sought the silvery stream
At midnight hour, calm and serene,
When skies of diamond sparkling flame
Shed pearly tears of heartsick shame;
To see me bound in hardship's blight,
Whilst man did rob me of my right.
And critics read my simple rhyme
And dared to say it was not mine?
Imperfect though my lays may be,
Still they belong to none but me.
My blighted breast is their abode,
They were placed there by nature's God;
And though my years are spent in pain,
Still seeking fortune's smiles in vain,
Still sighing youth's sweet years away,
Changing life's light into clay;
Hard toiling for my daily bread
With burning heart and aching head.
A vision of delusion's dream,
Hastening downward death's dark stream;
Yet nature between you and I,
Beneath the universal sky,
Who dares to say I have bereft
Another genius of their gift.