'But at such times the soul rises up, like some fair child in
whom sleep has been mistaken for death, a living flower in
the dark tomb. He casts aside his shrouds and bands, rosy and
fresh from the long trance, undismayed, not seeing how to get
out, yet sure there is a way.
'I think the black jailer laughs now, hoping that while I
want to show that Woman can have the free, full action of
intellect, he will prove in my own self that she has not
physical force to bear it. Indeed, I am too poor an example,
and do wish I was bodily strong and fair. Yet, I will not be
turned from the deeper convictions.'
'Driven from home to home, as a Renouncer, I gain the poetry
of each. Keys of gold, silver, iron, lead, are in my casket.
Though no one loves me as I would be loved, I yet love many
well enough to see into their eventual beauty. Meanwhile, I
have no fetters, and when one perceives how others are bound
in false relations, this surely should be regarded as a
privilege. And so varied have been my sympathies, that this
isolation will not, I trust, make me cold, ignorant, nor
partial.
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