XXV
Long sat she there, as flame that strives
To hold on beating wind:
—His wife must be the fool of wives,
Or cunningly designed!
XXVI
She sat until the tempest-pitch
In her torn bosom fell;
—His wife must be a subtle witch
Or else God loves her well!
III
I
Old Kraken read a missive penned
By his great Lady’s hand.
Her condescension called him friend,
To raise the crest she fanned.
II
Swiftly to where he lay encamped
It flew, yet breathed aloof
From woman’s feeling, and he stamped
A heel more like a hoof.