I would rather dig in the earth than learn your patience, I have need of a sky that never was cut for dresses And a rough ground to tear my hands on like lion’s clothing, And a hard wheel to move.

The low roof by the marches of rainy weather, The sharp love that carries the fool’s old colors, The bare bed that is not a saint’s or a lady’s, The strong death at the end.

They hurt you, darling, they hurt you, and I not with you, I nowhere by to see you, to touch my darling, To take your fever upon me if I could take it And burn my hands at your wound.