Shall Boreas send me a howling gale?

To foretell the lasting transformation

or mock me nightly under sleepful veil

and keep my thoughts from fruitful gestation.

Where, great Muse, do you hide my spirit’s art?

All year, in vain, I await October

when shy monarchs arrive to fill my heart

with insightful whispers; make me sober.

No longer does my soul dream peacefully

torn between the night’s rough tides

as if I belonged to these oceans solely

but neither caring where I’d best abide.

So long as I am crushed upon this shore,

I’ll live the hermit’s life, blind forever more.