Iii

Yet the sport wind that doubling oft blows home Some welcome unforeseen felicity, Is but, within the dreams of poesie, Life’s average accident, which all who roam The spacious earth, or try the beckoning foam Of some unvisited soul-haunting sea, May count on as their portion--even as we Who chance a star or two in this weird gloam. Hence as in all high toil which must be traced In long-drawn sequence, linking part to part, Not chance nor inspiration can fulfil The welded whole, nor vanquish that distaste Which ever comes with pause; but sovereign Art Herself must bow to man’s more sovereign Will.

HESEPE, 24th June