I HAVE shut my little sister in from life and light (For a rose, for a ribbon, for a wreath across my hair), I have made her restless feet still until the night, Locked from sweets of summer and from wild spring air; I who ranged the meadow lands, free from sun to sun, 5 Free to sing and pull the buds and watch the far wings fly, I have bound my sister till her playing-time is done Oh, my little sister, was it I?was it I? I have robbed my sister of her day of maidenhood (For a robe, for a feather, for a trinkets restless spark), 10 Shut from Love till dusk shall fall, how shall she know good, How shall she pass scatheless through the sinlit dark? I who could be innocent, I who could be gay, I who could have love and mirth before the light went by, I have put my sister in her mating-time away 15 Sister, my young sister,was it I?was it I? I have robbed my sister of the lips against her breast (For a coin, for the weaving of my childrens lace and lawn), Feet that pace beside the loom, hands that cannot rest, How can she know motherhood, whose strength is gone? 20 I who took no heed of her, starved and labor-worn, I against whose placid heart my sleepy gold heads lie, Round my path they cry to me, little souls unborn, God of LifeCreator! It was I! It was I!