The lot of love is chosen. I learnt that much

    Struggling for an image on the track

    Of the whirling Zodiac.

    Scarce did he my body touch，

    Scarce sank he from the west

    Or found a subterranean¹ rest

    On the maternal² midnight of my breast

    Before I had marked him on his northern way，

    And seemed to stand although in bed I lay.

    I struggled with the horror of daybreak，

    I chose it for my lot！ If questioned on

    My utmost pleasure with a man

    By some new-married bride， I take

    That stillness for a theme

    Where his heart my heart did seem

    And both adrift on the miraculous³ stream

    Where—wrote a learned astrologer—

    The Zodiac is changed into a sphere.

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