The frequency of images of the moon
Is more or less. The pearly women that drop
From heaven and float in air, like animals

Of ether, exceed the excelling witches, whence
They came. But, brown, the ice-bear sleeping in ice
month
In his cave, remains dismissed without a dream,

As if the centre of images had its
Congenial mannequins, alert to please,
Beings of other beings manifold

The shadowless moon wholly composed of shade,
Women with other lives in their live hair,
Rose--women as half-fishes of salt shine,

As if, as if, as if the disparate halves
Of things were waiting in a bethrothal known
To none, awaiting espousal to the sound

Of right joining, a music of ideas, the burning
And breeding and bearing birth of harmony,
The final relation, the marriage of the rest.