I, too, have reveled in the grotto and been rouged by queens;
But by the mote felt forms on bindings where these verses sing.

See, the last, smallest Pleiades keeps mourning on through night;
What stirs her sisters' hearts, who speak to sailors with their brightening?

The poet's love brought Maude less joy than did her rival's love
Of all her swan-voiced lover's lays, dismissed as paltering.

Fickle tyrants leave me looking for revenge in Heaven,
Where they could never be, worse luck, nor me with bare sword showing.

To his arm comes sleep, to his mind comes rest, who owns the night,
Over whom you spread your hair's dark carpet of silk rings.

Stepping from beneath your tent, I join the choir of stars;
My long complaint has woke the sky and made its chorus sing.

If I keep my appointment, how to explain my lateness?
The clerk just shook her head through hours of my best explaining.

Hands that crush wine of Shiraz gain life and strength in measure;
So the cupping palms, which years draw thick with lines of shirring.

You are the spirit women, breaking out of our houses,
Building your paradise now, instead of the Eden we'll bring.

After long in hardship's harness, the galls all grow like friends;
So many loads I draw, I want one now for balancing.

What marigold aspect of Eden approaches,
That no grain of sand is swept up in the floral impression?

They must be drunk with hope of winter buds before pruning;
In the dust of the cellar, there's nothing to make them brave.

I misstrike with my own love, standing about with bent neck.
But for the wish to have built, this house holds not even dust.

Even you, Bill, must see that your script is mere calligraphy,
Profitless exercise of manual dexterity.