I

You had to come
Calling my singularity
In scorn,
Imprisonment.

It contained content
That, now, at liberty
In your generous embrace,
As once, in rich Rome,
Caractacus,
I mourn.

II

When the labour was for love
He did but touch at the tool
And holiday ran prodigal.

Now, stripped to the skin,
Can scarcely keep alive,
Sweats his stint out,
No better than a blind mole
That burrows for its lot
Of the flaming moon and sun
Down some black hole.