'T WERE a choice lot if my poor thoughts could make
By meditative power a separate boat,
Wherein their master and themselves might float,
Some little way behind, in this world's wake.
Now, as it swerves and rocks along its course
Over smooth seas with new-discovered force,
I in my boat would follow, uttering
From out the bosom of a quiet time
Words of most warning sweetness, shreds of rhyme
Scarce to be heard for ocean's murmuring.
And some few gentle ones upon the deck,
Who heard my song and loved it, might make moan,
When a rough wave, that made my bark a wreck,
Left the gray sea and glistening wake alone.