A double-handled sword am I laid naked by the circling sky; fortune hath sharpened me in Space, and whetted me upon Time’s face.

I am the world of fantasy; the genius of eternity the world of nightingale and rose hath shattered, fashioning me for those.

The youthful wine to cheer the soul that I am pouring in the bowl is from the vat, whereby my jar and glass decanter molten are.

The breath is burning in my breast; the sanctuary is my nest, and men may recognize my throat by the great ardour of my note.

Wrecked is the barque the ancient guide built out of sense, therein to ride; blest is the one who fashioned me to be his vessel on the sea.