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.'
