And he has made the market for your beauty
Too poor to buy although you die to sell.
Only that he has never heard of sleep,
And when the cats come out the rats are sly,
Here we are safe till he slinks in at dawn.
But he has gnawed a fibre from strange roots,
And in the morning some pale wonder ceases.
Things are not strange; and strange things are forgetful.
Ah! If the day were arid, somehow lost
Out of us; but it is as hair of us,