I said, " I cannot look at beauty,
For I am heavy with desire;
I cannot touch this child's sweet hair,
My hand is fire. "
O! I was desolate,
Burned dry and white,
Shut out from all kind comfort,
In the hungry night.

I did not heed the dark about me,
My head was bowed.
A scurrying wind came down and smote me,
Till I remembered cloud.
I raised my eyes to a wild cloud-drift,
And saw the travelling Moon.
Beauty and cold were so restored me,
And peace came soon.