Gather the dust of many a foreign land;
A labyrinthine maze I vainly grope,
Seeking the faint, vague vestige of a hope.
Still in those moments when life’s pulses go
Surging almost to fatal overflow,
When the blind, fettered spirit seems at last
Ready its fetters and its scales to cast,
Before my vision comes, on land or sea,
A wanderer, dressed in black, who looks like me.