Translated in all, my Circean enchantress
Holds me belayed in her massed irons bound
Not through, though, spiked wine with its spoor or its sound,
Nor yet by some grass aphrodisiac mess.
The sword of revenge - the good Grecian's, none less -
And the tonic the winged doctor found
In the merest of nicks that a chime can resound
Well, it countermands countercharms that she may press
So that national sty at the end of the line
Regain all the stature not granted to kine,
Sagacity, crassly earned pause;
But for myself - that self, soul, this thing - to lodge her
It mightn't avail the signet of Roger
So darkly my reason gropes into my flaws.
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