Ix

Like the Phaeacians' ship, Imagination Without the help of sail or mariner Rolls on; in my soul's depths loom many lands: Thrice-ancient, motionless like Asia,

And others five-minded and bold like Europe's realms; Despair like Africa's black earth holds me; Within me a savage Polynesia spreads; And always I trail some path Columbian.

All monstrous things of life, the fields aflame Under a tropic sun, I knew; I wore The shrouds of the poles; and on a thousand paths,

I saw the world unfurled before my eyes. And what am I? Grass on a clod of earth Scorned even by the passing reaper's scythe.