Chapter V

I sowed the field of Love with many seeds,
With many sails I sailed before the blast,
And all my crop is only bitter weeds;
My sails are torn, the winds have split the mast.

All of the winds have torn my sails and shattered,
All of the winds have blown my seed and scattered,
All of the storms have burst on my endeavour,—
So let me sleep at last and sleep for ever.