The Anti-Suffragist

The princess in her world-old tower pined A prisoner, brazen-caged, without a gleam Of sunlight, or a windowful of wind; She lived but in a long lamp-lighted dream. They brought her forth at last when she was old; The sunlight on her blanched hair was shed Too late to turn its silver into gold. “Ah, shield me from this brazen glare!” she said.