"Weary of myself and sick of asking
What I am, and what I ought to be,
At this vessel's prow I stand which bears me
Forwards, forwards o'er the star-lit sea.
And a look of passionate desire
O'er the sea and to the stars I send.
Ye who from my childhood up have calmed me,
Calm me, ah, compose me to the end!
'Ah,' once more I cried, 'Ye stars, ye waters,
On my heart your mighty charm renew;
Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you,
Feel my soul becoming vast like you!'
From the intense, clear, star-sown vault of Heaven,
Over the lit sea's unquiet way,
In the rustling night air came the answer:
Wouldst thou be as these are? Live as they."
"Do you hear that, Carstairs."
"Yes, I like it."
"Ah, I always knew you had a soul somewhere, deep down the abysmal depth of that great carcase of yours. Listen! I'll finish it.
'Wouldst thou be as these are? Live as they?'
'Unaffrighted by the silence round them,
Undistracted by the sights they see,
These demand not that the things without them
Yield them love, amusement, sympathy.
And with the joys the stars perform their shining,
And the sea its long moon-silvered roll;
For self-poised they live, nor pine with noting
All the fever of some differing soul.'