Raising Ophelia

All my girlhood I thought it was my fault.
For my beauty they extolled me, told me
I was daddy’s little rose would be sought,
So keep my petals closed, my bud; agree
To that and from your blossom, bosom-white
Sweet love would burst! But He, in spite
Of the rules, unclothes the rose with His eyes
To pierce with mad thorn. I warned, I am green;
He — no matter. I am hot and blue, cries
He. Pick you. Make you Mine. This is My scene;
You grow in garden, child. Duty of rose;
Stay in the fold, girl. Sin’s but that which shows.