To you particularly, and to all the Volscians
　　Great hurt and mischief.
　　
　　
　　Tired.
　　Subterrene laughter synchronous
　　With silence from the sacred wood
　　And bubbling of the uninspired
　　Mephitic river.
　　Misunderstood
　　The accents of the now retired
　　Profession of the calamus.
　　
　　
　　Tortured.
　　When the bridegroom smoothed his hair
　　There was blood upon the bed.
　　Morning was already late.
　　Children singing in the orchard
　　(Io Hymen, Hymenaee)
　　Succuba eviscerate.
　　
　　
　　Tortuous.
　　By arrangement with Perseus
　　The fooled resentment of the dragon
　　Sailing before the wind at dawn
　　Golden apocalypse. Indignant
　　At the cheap extinction of his taking-off.
　　Now lies he there
　　Tip to tip washed beneath Charles' Wagon.