Page:Poetry, a magazine of verse, Volume 7 (October 1915-March 1916).djvu/293

On Woman For I am not so bold To hope a thing so dear Now I am growing old; But when, if the tales true, 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, Gnashing of teeth, despair— And all because of some one Perverse creature of chance— And live like Solomon That Sheba led a dance.

Although I can see him still— The freckled man who goes To a gray place on a hill In gray Connemara clothes At dawn to cast his flies— It's long since I began To call up to the eyes