Terms
You think me cold, and say I am conceited. Though this is true, why did you have to tell? The underflends of pride that were defeated Are given access to the loving self When you say that. You throw me to a shelf Perched on the cliff between our land and hell.
Most warily my back upon the stone I bend taut-muscled, leaning where I slipped.
I hear you, but resentful and alone Refuse to change my attitude: while you Force me to keep it, it might as well be true.
For you, you strung the rope on which I tripped.
I take Prometheus-posture on this cliff— I suffer, yes, butspffer atpretending To pretend, as you have made me: if I say I want a change, don't think I hope That you will dangle that same traitor's rope Or that the eagle errands will have ending, But could you not quit safety, and a land Where gorgeous flowers are in bundles tied, Till, climbing to my ledge hand under hand, With pointed toes to meet my naked shoulder, You either push me from this iron boulder
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