You think my gait “spasmodic.” I am in danger, sir. You think me “uncontrolled.” I have no tribunal.
Would you have time to be the “friend” you should think I need? I have a little shape: it would not crowd your desk, nor make much racket as the mouse that dens your galleries.
If I might bring you what I do—not so frequent to trouble you—and ask you if I told it clear, ’twould be control to me. The sailor cannot see the North, but knows the needle can. The “hand you stretch me in the dark” I put mine in, and turn away. I have no Saxon now:—
As if I asked a common alms,
And in my wandering hand
A stranger pressed a kingdom,
And I, bewildered, stand;
As if I asked the Orient
Had it for me a morn,
And it should lift its purple dikes