Tired, and uneasy at the halts I made.
A hundred times when, roving high and low,
I have been harassed with the toil of verse,
Much pains and little progress, and at once
Some lovely Image in the song rose up
Full-formed, like Venus rising from the sea;
Then have I darted forward to let loose
My hand upon his back with stormy joy,
Caressing him again and yet again.
And when at evening on the public way