ON WOMANBy W.

B.

YeatsMAY God be praised for womanThat gives up all her mind,A man may find in no manA friendship of her kindThat covers all he has broughtAs with her flesh and bone,Nor quarrels with a thoughtBecause it is not her own.

Though pedantry denies,It’s plain the Bible meansThat Solomon grew wiseWhile talking with his queens.

Yet never could, althoughThey say he counted grass,Count all the praises dueWhen Sheba was his lass,When she the iron wrought, orWhen from the smithy fireIt shuddered in the water:Harshness of their desireThat made them stretch and yawn,Pleasure that comes with sleep,Shudder that made them one.

What else He give or keepGod grant me—no, not here,For I am not so boldTo hope a thing so dearNow I am growing old,But when if the tale’s trueThe Pestle of the moonThat pounds up all anewBrings me to birth again—To find what once I hadAnd 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 onePerverse creature of chance,And live like SolomonThat Sheba led a dance.

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