Rudderless, chartless, floating always
With some new current of chance control.
But thine image is clear in the whirling waters—
Ah, forgive—that I drag it there,
For it is so part of my very being
That where I wander it too must fare.
Ah, I have given thee strange companions,
To thee—so slender and chaste and cool—
But a white star loses no glimmer of beauty
In all the mud of a miry pool