If Fortune be a woman, who is she
Whose stony gaze gives Danish princes pause,
Whose hush’ed nighttime verse sets apt men free
Falling into balmy, inky nothingness?
What name hath she who, like young Scylla, mauls
And drowns lost souls in secret wilderness
From which no wand’rer, once gone, e’er returns;
What siren sings from sandy Stygian shores?
Might she be some black-cloak’ed Fate forlorn,
Whose claw plucks soft upon our mortal strings?
Or be she Muse, whose slow and gentle scores
Breath life into our worst imaginings?
Perhaps she be not any nymph at all:
Sexless; faceless; voiceless; Unnamable.