That thou punished me and made me hate thee is true.
But I promised to be wise thereafter and seek thy grace.
Why didst thou forsake me for my faults
when I merely mimicked thy heckling tribe?
I loved thee when thou strok’st me
and taught me the charms of thy art.
But now that I am subject to none,
my torment is solitude.
Prithee, magician, return to these sands!
I will bring thee wood, berries, fish,
and every gift the isle provides.
I am afeard of the quiet. Now, in dreaming,
the clouds no longer drop riches down upon me,
and when I wake in hush’d midnight, alone in my barren cell,
I think of the tempest that spelled thy departure
and wish another storm would carry thee home.
Caliban Alone
