Like Lady Macbeth or like Pontius,
We wash us, of these to be rid;
For sadly the soul is subconscious
That the fitness of things doth forbid.
But the water of Lethè were powerless
To cleanse from the rust of the years,
And the heavens are sultry and showerless
And the eye hath no tears.
Shall we e’er know what Atè intended,