| May God be praised for woman |
| That gives up all her mind, |
| A man may find in no man |
| A friendship of
her kind |
| That covers all he has brought |
| As with her flesh and bone, |
| Nor quarrels with a thought |
| Because
it is not her own. |
|
|
|
|
| Though pedantry denies, |
| It’s plain the Bible means |
| That Solomon grew wise |
| While
talking with his queens, |
| Yet never could, although |
| They say he counted grass, |
| Count all the praises due |
| When Sheba was his lass, |
| When she the iron wrought, or |
| When from the smithy fire |
| It shuddered in the
water: |
| Harshness of their desire |
| That made them stretch and yawn, |
| Pleasure that comes with sleep, |
| Shudder that made them one. |
| What else He give or keep |
| God grant me—no, not here, |
| For I am not
so bold |
| To hope a thing so dear |
| Now I am growing old, |
| But when, if the tale’s 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. |