I Am Not Byron

I am not Byron—yet I am One fore-elected, yet one more Unknown, world-hunted wanderer, A Russian in my mood and mind.

Scant from my seed the corn was ripe, My mouth spoke young, was early hushed; In depths of my own soul, the wreck Of hope lies as in deep-sea sunk.

Who shall the counsels of the sea, Its awe sublime unloose? Who shall Read clear my spirit and my soul? Unless it be a Poet—no man!