Page:Collected poems vol 1 de la mare.djvu/71

 The secret of the child, the bird, the night, Faded, flouted, bespattered, in days so far Hate cannot bitter them, nor wrath deny; Else were this Desdemona. . . . Why! Woman a harlot is, and life a nest Fouled by long ages of forked fools. And God — lago deals not with a tale so dull: To have made the world! Fie on thee, Artisan!