Şiir 17
So this marvel o’ mine sees naught, and nothing can hear he,
What he himself, an he be or not be, wholly unknowing.
Now would I willingly pitch such wight head first fro’ thy bridge,
Better a-sudden t’arouse that numskull’s stolid old senses,
Or in the sluggish mud his soul supine to deposit
25
Even as she-mule casts iron shoe where quagmire is stiffest.