How many companions, friends!
No one you'll be echo to.
This tender youth is governed
By pride and bitterness, true.
Do you remember the crazy day in a port,
The threats of the south winds,
And the roar of the Kaspian sea - in mouth -
The rose's wing.
And the gypsy had given you
The stone in a fretted oval,
And the gypsy was lying you
Something about glory...
And - somewhere high at the sails -
There was a boy in a short, dark-blue.
Thunderstorm of sea and a call, menacing
Of the wounded Muse.
25 June 1916