Hoarse-voiced as autumn, and, as autumn leaves
Behind her, blown by all the postal winds,
Letters and manuscripts from unknown hands.
Thus came not Ahab’s: his he brought himself,
One morn, so clear with impecunious gold.
I said: “Chaucer yet lives, and Calderon!”
And, letting down the gangways of the mind
For shipment from the piers of common life,
O’er Learning’s ballast meant some lighter freight
To stow, for export to Macarian Isles