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