How many dawns, chill from his rippling rest,
Does the poet count in Poseidon's chest?

Tilting there momently, shrill shirt ballooning,
You jumped and left the deck, a seagull swooning.

And we have seen night lifted in thine arms
Fulfilling your self-judgment's deep alarms.

O harp and altar, of the fury fused,
You drowned your gift, left most of it unused.

Only in darkness is thy shadow clear:
Light extinguished in the depths of fear.

Terrific threshold of the prophet's pledge,
You chose to plunge before your soul could fledge.