Poet to his hero, tarnished obviously,
young, still lingering on the shore: 'The tide is coming in.
The night you need has fallen. All the copiously
padded-out, supporting actors are assembled.
The round-bellied dinghy with the wavelets drumming
their impatience under it, lifts up and lets its bum drop
like an eager puppy, and you tremble
on the threshold of your journey. You've forgotten to invite
the goddesses. However, lacy foam on wave-tops
and their silken hollows, mimic them in teasing
semi-nakedness. Mesdames of phosphorus and starlight,
lend our vessel buoyancy to make this midnight's easing.'