London, December 11, 1852, 10:00 a.m.
I
Whatever sunlight plays on the sails,
Brushes the masts or s-prays the waves;
Fog recedes like a woman’s veil,
Clouds behind it resemble mounds of rubble! . . .
II
“Why rubble? and why veil?
Why a woman’s . . .?” – let a critic ask
And blame the muse, for clouded
Is this woman’s harmony-of-mind –
III
I – don’t know . . . I watch, limn the matter sadly,
As if I were one of the cranes in flight,
That draw their shadow ’cross the canvas-on-masts,
Not considering whether their image will come from that! . . .
IV
I don’t know . . . the ending, perhaps I’ll never know,
But . . .
(here the helmsman cut me short)
. . . fair winds, O Lord . . .