The Pestle of the moon

That pounds up all anew

Brings me to birth again—

To find what once I had

And know what once I have known,

Until I am driven mad,

Sleep driven from my bed,

By tenderness and care,

Pity, an aching head,

[43]

Gnashing of teeth, despair;

And all because of some one

Perverse creature of chance,

And live like Solomon

That Sheba led a dance.

[44]

[44]

THE FISHERMAN

Although I can see him still,

The freckled man who goes

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