The thrush at dawn beguiles my glade,
And once, ’tis said, I woke to hear.
My grandsire in his ample fist
The long harpoon upheld to men:
Behold obedient to my wrist
A grey gull’s-feather for my pen!
Upon my grandsire’s leathern cheek
Five zones their bitter bronze had set:
Some day their hazards I will seek,
I promise me at times. Not yet.