Chapter I
“‘Twixt this and dawn, three hours my soul will smiteWith prickly seconds, or less tolerablyWith dull-blade minutes flatwise slapping me.Wait, Heart! Time moves.—Thou lithe young Western Night,Just-crowned king, slow riding to thy right,Would God that I might straddle mutinyCalm as thou sitt’st yon never-managed sea,Balk’st with his balking, fliest with his flight,Giv’st supple to his rearings and his falls,Nor dropp’st one coronal star about thy browWhilst ever dayward thou art steadfast drawn!Yea, would I rode these mad contentious brawlsNo damage taking from their If and How,Nor no result save galloping to my Dawn!