Margaret Fuller Slack
would have been as great as George Eliot
for an untoward fate.
look at the photograph of me made by Penniwit,
resting on hand, and deep-set eyes—
too, and far-searching.
there was the old, old problem:
it be celibacy, matrimony or unchastity?
John Slack, the rich druggist, wooed me,
me with the promise of leisure for my novel,
I married him, giving birth to eight children,
had no time to write.
was all over with me, anyway,
I ran the needle in my hand
washing the baby's things,
died from lock-jaw, an ironical death.
me, ambitious souls,
is the curse of life!