Fear-poisoned nerves, that like a priest he brewed
My heart keen drink from out the look of earth?—­
Gast, is it nothing to thee that all in green
The wolds go heaping up against the blue? 
And is it only fear to thee that night
Is thatched with stars?—­Ah, but I took his wit
Further than he e’er did; in women I found
The same amazement for my wakened eyes
As in the hills and waters.  Ay, gape at me,
And think me bitten by some evil tooth;
But as a quiet stream at the cliff’s edge
Breaks its smooth habit into a loud white force,
So this delight the earth pours over me
Leaps out of women with such excellence,
It seems as I must brace my sinews to it,—­
The comely fashion of their limbs, their eyes,
Their gait, and the way they use their arms.  And now
My eyes have a message to my heart from them
Such as thou only through a blind skin hast. 
Therefore I came back here;—­I scarce know why,
But now that women are to me not only
The sacred friends of hidden Awe, not only
Mistresses of the world’s unseen foison,
Ay, and not only ease for throbbing groins,
But things mine eyes enjoy as mine ears take songs,
Vision that beats a timbrel in my blood,
Dreams for my sleeping sight, that move aired round
With wonder, as trembling covers a hearth,—­
It seems I must be fighting for them, must
Run through some danger to them now before
Delighting in them.  I am here to fight
Wolves for the joy of the world, marvellous women!

Gast.  Star-madden’d!  What is this in earth and women That pricks thee into wrath against the wolves?  Do I not fight for women too?  But I For what is certain in them, not for madness.

Brys. 
I make my fierceness of a mind to set
My spirit high up in the winds of joy,
Before I tumble down into the darkness. 
Not thus thy women send thee to thy fighting: 
All fear thy battle-courage is, fear-bred
Thine anger.  Thou heavily drudgest women,
But yet thou art afraid of them.

Gast. 
     Ay, truly;
For look how from their wondrous bodies comes
Increase:  who knoweth where such power ends? 
They are in league with the great Motherhood
Who brings the seasons forth in the open world;
And if to them She hands, unseen by us,
Their marvellous bringing forth of children, what
Spirit of Her great dreadful mountain-spell,
Wherein the rocks have purpose against us,
Sealed up in watchful quiet stone, may not
Pass on to their dark minds, that seem so mild,
Yet are so strange; or what charm’d word from out
Her forests whispering endless dangerous things,
Wherefrom our hunters often have run crazed
To hear the trees devising for their souls;
What secret share of Her earth’s monstrous power
May She not also grant to women’s lives? 
Yea, wise is our fear of women; but we fight
For more than fear; we give them liking too.