ON WOMAN
 
 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.