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.