And serpent-rippled waters reach
Like seepage-pools of Acheron,
Beside thee; and the twisten reeds,
Close-raddled as a witch’s net,
Enwind thy knees, and cling and clutch
Like wreathing adders; though the touch
Of the blind air be dank and wet,
As from a wounded Thing that bleeds
In cloud and darkness overhead—
Fare onward, where thy dreams of yore