This is too rare a festival for joy,
As was that joy too rare for my worn kisses,
When first I put a babe to my good breast.
Then was my body justified, with love,
And all such enterprise.

When I conceivèd that good plan
I made no feudal compact with my man,
For in my body's service is not found
A warrant that my will be always bound.

Now, being mother, this I see
I am thrice woman, and the soul of me
Is herded to an end I never sought
Like cow or sheep, and my desire is naught.

Who can my fuller need divine,
From the curved symbol of my body's line?
So for a simple accident of shape,
Compass all ruin with my soul's rape.

This is too rare a festival for joy,
For a new thing is born of other labours.
I will break an heirloom, shout and stamp for this victory.
I will fling my freedom at the stars,
And with a good conceit think so to shake the spheres.

And when shall Heaven tremble,
But when tired eyes,
Scanning long empty spaces,