Well girl, goodbye, after 38 years. 

38 years and you never arrived.

The woman has no name. 

She is Mrs. Richard Rowe or Mrs. John Doe. 

Just who’s Mrs. she may chance to be.

She walketh veiled and sleeping 

for she knoweth not her power.

A thinking woman sleeps with monsters

Of the two I preferred his stormy moods 

although they left me trembling

The light heart, which nature had given me, 

became heavy with sad forebodings. 

In me she has drowned a young girl 

and in me an old woman rises toward her 

day after day

Stasis in darkness then the substanceless blue

Moths that fly by day are not properly to be called moths.

But born in a tidal wave of the father’s overthrow

Sweetheart when you break through you’ll find a poet here 

not quite what one would choose

So I am for keeping the thing going while things are stirring

Because if we wait till it is still it will take a great while to get it going again

For out of nothing comes nothing

But out of suffering may come the cure

My hell is no worse than yours 

though you pass among the flowers 

and speak with the spirits above Earth

The languages of the dying suns are themselves dying

Who will read it? 

Who will live forever in this world?

Let Greeks be Greeks and women what they are

I lift my lamp beside the golden door