poem

[ssehc]

“Oh! why was I born with a different face?

why was I not born like the rest of my race?

when I look, each one starts!

when I speak, I offend;

then Im silent & passive & lose every friend.

Then my verse I dishonour, my pictures despise, my person degrade & my temper chastise;

and the pen is my terror, the pencil my shame; all my talents I bury, and dead is my fame.

Im either too low or too highly prized; when elate I m envy'd,

when meek Im despis'd”

― William Blake