You are to me what the bowstring is to the shaft,Speeding my purpose aloft and aflame and afar.

You are to me what the bowstring is to the shaft,
Speeding my purpose aloft and aflame and afar.

Neither will I put myself forward as others may do,Neither, if you wish to flatter, will I flatter you;I will look at you grimly, and so you will know I am true.

Blue oblivion, largely lit, smiled and smiled at me.

Time, the dark whale, spouts blithely from his spiracleA jet of memory that makes glad the sun.

So let it be, let it be,Fretting all the day!