XXV
A SAVAGE sea without a sail,
Grey gulphs and green a-glittering,
Rare snow that floats—a vestal veil
Upon the forehead of the spring.
Here in a plunging galleon
Sir Palamede, a listless drone,
Drifts desperately on—and on—
And on—with heart and eyes of stone.
The deep-scarred brain of him is healed
With wind and sea and star and sun,
The assoiling grace that God revealed
For gree and bounteous benison.
Ah! still he trusts the recreant brain,
Thrown in a thousand tourney-justs ;
Still he raves on in reason-strain
With senseless “oughts” and fatuous “ musts.”
“ All the delusions ” (argueth
The ass), “all uproars, surely rise
From that curst Me whose name is Death,
Whereas the Questing Beast belies
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