What heat! The days have run the high tide hour.
I lay myself wrapped in blanket,
My window half forbids the summer wrath.
When night is fled, and day unrisen yet.
Such gloom makes for maidens meek,
Wherein may they well hope to hide their shame.
Away I cast the rails of doubt, untamed
my heart’s faith now held in easy siege,
a poet’s disease of tides.
What dreams I saw and held! in
a womb of fairest health!
What fickle sides, sweet craving, and youthful loins!
What more may I rehearse?
Upon my hands’ worship to the altars of faith.
What more should I do?