AMBERGRIS 
95 
9.  The sound of my own voice carries me on. 
I am as a ship whose anchors are all gone, 
Whose rudder is held by Love the indomitable— 
Purposeful helmsman !  Were his port high Hell, 
Who should be fool enough to care ?  Suppose 
Hell’s waters wash the memory of this rose 
Out of my mind, what misery matters then ? 
Or, if they leave it, all the woes of men 
Are as pale shadows in the glory of 
That passionate splendour of Love. 
 
10.  Ay !  my own voice, my own thoughts.  These, 
then, must be 
The mutiny of some worm’s misery, 
Some chained despair knotted into my flesh, 
Some chance companion, some soul damned afresh 
Since my redemption, that is vocal at all, 
For I am wrapt away from light and call 
In the sweet heart of the red rose. 
My spirit only knows 
This woman and no more ;  who would know more  
I, I am concentrate 
In the unshakable state 
Of constant rapture.  Who should pour 
His ravings in the air for winds to whirl, 
Far from the central pearl 
Of all the diadem of the universe ? 
Let God take pen, rehearse 
Dull nursery tales ;  then, not before, O rose, 
Red rose !  shall the beloved of thee, 
Infinite rose !  pen puerile poetry 
That turns in writing to vile prose. 
 
11.  Were this the quintessential plume of Keats 
And Shelley and Swinburne and Verlaine, 
Could I outsoar them, all their lyric feats, 
Excel their utterance vain 
With one convincing rapture, beat them hollow 
As an ass’s skin ;  wert thou, Apollo,