Methinks

I’m going to build with skill and will, (around my heart) A shroud so tough and hard and cold, (can’t come apart)

So storms within will die unspent So inmost truth, the things I kennt,1 Will never start The grief that’s in my soul.

The wiles of those of graceful air (What of it all?) Will hit that shroud and wonder where (He won’t enthrall) The air will seem less chill, less bare. They’ll turn away; the can’t ensnare That icy ball That people call my heart.

I’m tough! I’m bold: My heart is cold. A maiden caused it so. And when I’m gold; Life’s’ story told; Haw! Into a hole I’ll go.

That matters more—the earth seems warm I’m wedded to the soil. The worms that eat my eyes, my ears; That fight and writhe and coil, Will say that woman caused that shell So hard to get behind; Will up in arms and massacre All females of their kind.

Disdain All women vain They catch a heart and tear, Sweet They all entreat ‘Tis but a saccharine ware.

Give man his woman, woman rope She’ll hang her man. Ah! Little hope.

Written the day of our Lourde 1933 upon the 6th day of January while in complete health and in sanity of mind. 1Know

Ellsworth Clark 6 January 1933