THE THIRTY-FIRST DAY 
 
“ You whoreson villain ! will you let it fall ?” 
Taming of the Shrew. 
 
The inexpiable fate whose shuddering wing 
Fear fled from, changed the native deed of sin 
Into a spasmic kiss too salt and keen, 
Windless, that ended with a sterile sting 
The earlier hour whose heart was full of spring ; 
And the large love grew piteously lean ; 
Dreadful, like death ; withdrawn and epicene 
At the mad crisis of the eventful thing. 
 
O that such tender fondness like a flower’s 
Should take such nameless infamy !  That we 
Should pluck such bitter bloom, rooted in fear,  
Salt with the scurf of some diseaséd sea, 
Foul with the curse of God :  that we are here, 
Hating the night’s inexorable hours. 
 
71