And so I launch out into the misty world
of poetic fancy: something known, a voyage
to the same, my rudder fixed along the course
this whole world of ours mysteriously pursues.
Just as the trees know not what to say, yet
say it so well, the wind that drives them blind,
without sense or wit, the poet and
musician of their charms, so in like wise
my pen steps on these chill grey endless waves
where mists abide; yet, yield so easily
you never thought betrayal of the course
would be the drenching worst! - As once,
the mists crowded out, the skies lifted,
and in that swelling sea, a voice cried: 'Lord, save!'