by William Butler Yeats
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 pedantry denies,
It's plain the Bible means
That Solomon grew wise
While talking with his queens,
Yet never could, although
They say he counted the grass,
Count all the praises due
When Sheba was his lass,
When she the iron wrought, or
When from the smithy fire
It shuddered in the water:
Harshness of their desire
That made them stretch and yawn,
Pleasure that comes from sleep,
Shudder that made them one.
What else He give or keep
Go 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 pestle 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
Perverse creature of chance,
And live like Solomon
That led Sheba a dance.
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