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.