That Is The Gods' Work, Spinning Threads

Now From His Breast Into The Eyes The Ache Of Longing Mounted, And He Wept At Last, His Dear Wife, Clear And Faithful, In His Arms, Longed For As The Sunwarmed Earth Is Longed For By A Swimmer Spent In Rough Water Where His Ship Went Down Under Poseidon's Blows, Gale Winds And Tons Of Sea. Few Men Can Keep Alive Through A Big Serf To Crawl, Clotted With Brine, On Kindly Beaches In Joy, In Joy, Knowing The Abyss Behind: And So She Too Rejoiced, Her Gaze Upon Her Husband, Her White Arms Round Him Pressed As Though Forever.

The Natural Thing, My Lord, Men And Women Joined.

My Hour At Last Has Come; Yet Not Ingloriously Or Passively I Die, But First Will Do Some Valiant Deed, Of Which Mankind Shall Hear In After Time.

And Empty Words Are Evil.

Sleep, Delicious And Profound, The Very Counterfeit Of Death