May God be praised for woman

    That gives up all her mind，

    A man may find in no man

    A friendship of her kind

    That covers all he has brought

    As with her flesh and bone，

    Nor quarrels with a thought

    Because it is not her own.

    Though pedantry¹ denies，

    It‘s plain the Bible means

    That Solomon grew wise

    While talking with his queens，

    Yet never could， although

    They say he counted grass，

    Count all the praises due

    When Sheba was his lass，

    When she the iron wrought²， or

    When from the smithy fire

    It shuddered³ in the water：

    Harshness of their desire

    That made them stretch and yawn，

    Pleasure that comes with sleep，

    Shudder⁴ that made them one.

    What else He give or keep

    God grant me—no， not here，

    For I am not so bold

    To hope a thing so dear

    Now I am growing old，

    But when， if the tale‘s true，

    The Pestle⁵ of the moon

    That pounds up all anew

    Brings me to birth again—

    To find what once I had

    And know what once I have known，

    Until I am driven mad，

    Sleep driven from my bed，

    By tenderness and care，

    Pity， an aching head，

    Gnashing of teeth， despair；

    And all because of some one

    Perverse⁶ creature of chance，

    And live like Solomon

    That Sheba led a dance.

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