You! Again, and with a tripping skill that far defies
These voiceless cries, mixed in with all the sweets
Of moonlight and perfumes,
Soaked round a ragged stench,
Come: will freedom ever be as free
As your craft? Hurricanes make for most placid lakes,
The swill of the prow is the dip in an ocean
Of stars. Elements, voices, fire! It must be Empyrean fire!
The heavens never staggered such bolts, but we,
Poets of the earth, have staged our stumbling groans.
Here's homage to you, then, where all things foreign
Find renown, and a most natural bit of fun
Is the general humour in things, a lactic play
Of words, but more convincingly arranged in bones.
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