Marie Bashkirtseff said
(From some dim place she said),
So many years I have been dead
To this dull world, and still,
Good folks are saying with a will,
“Surely, surely Marie was past praying for.”
Or,
“She was wilful, she was wild,
Half a savage, half a child.”

“In such a year,” they say,
“She threw all decency away,
So and so, thus and thus;
Credulous and mutinous,
Calamitous and amorous,
Were the things she gloried in.”
All their humour turned to gall,
One and all
On my reputation fall,
And smack their lips on storied sin.

“Farrago!
Snobbish and selfish farrago!"
That is their name for thee,
Beloved diary!
Come, let us make enquiry,
Is that all these Philistines can know?
Then let the true and tragic tale begin,
Of that and this,
Right well I wis,
None ever heard
These say a word. 

Of this, the horror that I knew,
The serpent grief that coiled and threw
Its small, glittering eyes on me,
Green and snaky eyes that held
All my will, and me compelled
To the numbing misery
Of some fascinated bird—
Of all this,
Well I wis—
Never a word! 

Of this the hooded snake that drew
And watched me circle round and round,
Of how I fluttered, fell, and flew
Frantic spaces from the ground;
Of the singing in my ears,
Hideous clamour, mocking jeers,
Of the devastating fears,
Dear and familiar things unheard,
Of the awful hope deferred—
Oh, well I wis
Of all this—
Never a word! 

Of the hidden, dull despair,
Of the grievous lassitude,
Of the crowning horror where
Blossomed love and plenitude;
Of the odious, choking shame,
Dissimulation, anger, blame,
Embarrassment, I overcame,
Of ridicule, mistakes absurd,
Of all this,
Well I wis—
Not a word! 

Of all the anguish borne in secret,
Loss of trust in God and Man,
Of the great ambition shattered,
Budding hope and darling plan;
Of the soundless wind and rain
Beating on the window-pane;
Of the untruths told in vain;
Of the voiceless bird and beast,
Of the songless, laughless feast,
Of the mind to madness spurred,
Never a word! 

Of life’s last keen extremity,
Fear of laughter, fear of pity,
Of the death that would not smite,
Of my heart pierced—uncontrite,
Living, thrilling, mad-to-live,
Quick, ceremented, splenitive,
Broken heart!
Of my youth so over-yeared,
Of all this,
Too well I wis,
Not a word—
Ah! Never a word.