My rhymes are rough, and often in my rhyming Ive drifted, silver-sailed, on seas of dream, Hearing afar the bells of Elfland chiming, Seeing the groves of A rcadie a gleam. I was the thrall of Beauty that rejoices From peak snow-diademed to regal star; Yet to mine aerie ever pierced the voices, The pregnant voices of the Things That A re. The Here, the Now, the vast Forlorn around us; The gold-delirium, the ferine strife; The lusts that lure us on, the hates that hound us; Our red rags in the patch-work quilt of Life. The nameless men who nameless rivers travel, And in strange valleys greet strange deaths alone; The grim, intrepid ones who would unravel The mysteries that shroud the Polar Zone. These will I sing, and if one of you linger Over my pages in the Long, Long Night, And on some lone line lay a calloused finger, Saying: It shuman-true it hits me right; Then will I count this loving toil well spent; Then will I dream awhile content, content.
(Typographical errors above are due to OCR software and don't occur in the book.)
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