The fisherman draw marvels from the deep,
Then homeward wing at eve to Ischia?
I cannot think it!... yet ...!
[Again distraught.
O what is it I dread! what thing has changed
All natural thoughts within me to repugnance,
All instincts and desires into terror?
I cannot touch my flesh, but I turn cold
As if I had touched pollution, cannot press
My child unto my breasts, but ... true, Oh, true!...