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