history’s forces.
Might I but grasp at a bridle, and fear not to be trodden
under,
Swing myself into a saddle, and ride on greatly, exulting
On down the long straight road of the wind, a galloping
thunder!
Only a grey sea, and a long grey shore,
And the grey heavens brooding over them,
Twilight of hopes and purposes forgot,
Twilight of ceaseless eld, for when was youth?