The Tragedies, The Dreams (Rev.)

You! Again, and with a tripping skill that far defies
These voiceless cries, mixed 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 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 staged such bolts, but we,
Poets of the earth, have only staggered groans.
Here's homage to you, then, where all things foreign
Find renown.