If I, who am an abject, low-born woman, Can bear within me such lofty fire, Why should I not possess at least a little Poetic power to tell it to the world? If Love, with such a new unheard-of flint Lifted me up where I could never climb, Why cannot I, in an unusual way, Make pain and pen be equal in myself? If Love cannot do this by force of nature, Perhaps as by a miracle he may Passing and bursting every common measure. How that can be, I cannot well explain But yet I feel, because of my great fortune, My heart imprinted with a strong new style.