Iii

Scanted of life and vented on this shore, Where but the salt and sailless ocean plies His tide of time with soulless fall and rise, We conn the unfeatured waste from pole to pole. Daily the gray remorseless waters roll Out of the blank of gray remorseless skies, And nothing happens. Then we close sick eyes, And sadly the soul communes with the soul-- When often o’er night’s face a sudden glow Of Boreal splendour palpitating plays, And the long runners, shaking tress-like, show Our life’s plan in a vision which betrays Our secrets to our pillows; and we know Our selves more clearly than in happier days.

HESEPE, 4th June