There were herbs strown
Over the bed-room floor, alkanet,
Perhaps, and several of the mints, and costmary,
Too, I think ; they were fresh and brash and fragrant, but a man
	can forget
All names but one.  I was not alone in the room.
Even in the morning they were fresh, they had not died,
We had meant to have tied
Some of them into garlands, but we had no time.
They were fragrant even without being touched, there was so
	much 
Pressure against them from the passion that beat against that
	room
Enough to wrench its rafters down.
I was late getting down
To the shore. Women there, 
With sea-wind slashing their hair into their eyes, were drying
long net and long net and long net.