Of old the murmurs of the Delphian shrine,
The dry leaves fluttering in the Sibyl’s cave,
The mystic lights that shone upon the gems
Of Israel’s pontiff, and all prophecy
Were for the few, not for the common herd.
I, who have spoken to my co-mates stanch
Foregather’d by our mast, have spoken words,
‘Here in this roaring moon of daffodil
And crocus,’ which to them are clear as light,
Though dark as night to them that stand without.