Woman? We know her slavish thrall
To the strange sway despotical
Of that strong figment, Fashion;
But is there nought in _this_ to move
The being born for grace and love
To shamed rebellious passion?

'Tis a she-shape by Mode arrayed!
The dove that coos in verdant shade,
The lark that shrills in ether,
The humming-bird with jewelled wings,--
Ten thousand tiny songful things
Have lent her plume and feather.

They die in hordes that she may fly,
A glittering horror, through the sky.
Their voices, hushed in anguish,
Find no soft echoes in her ears,
Or the vile trade in pangs and fears
Her whims support would languish.

What cares she that those wings were torn
From shuddering things, of plumage shorn
To make _her_ plumes imposing?
That when--for _her_--bird-mothers die,
Their broods in long-drawn agony
Their eyes--for _her_--are closing?

What cares she that the woods, bereft