XXXVII. [Full Poem] [Temo. 0.716]

XXXVII.
Wwelf, and the winds, o'er land are strong,
Yet on earth was washing vested bound,
And fell down low high, -- some flowing now
The minds the prodiant are or say,
As the scent starts coward at back
The one prick of the score
And close the drop of pain.
Such fingers descend, --
I dared so seem a pile-dust long
In all the tents that bear a sleep;
And we it falls about the star,
And we wanted men to me.