My Rhymes Are Rough, And Often In My Rhyming I've Drifted, Silver-Sailed, On Seas Of Dream, Hearing Afar The Bells Of Elfland Chiming, Seeing The Groves Of Arcadie Agleam. I Was The Thrall Of Beauty That Rejoices From Peak Snow-Diademed To Regal Star; Yet To Mine Aerie Ever Pierced The Voices, The Pregnant Voices Of The Things That Are. The Here, The Now, The Vast Forlorn Around Us; The Gold-Delirium, The Ferine Strife; The Lusts That Lure Us On, The Hates That Hound Us; Our Red Rags In The Patch-Work Quilt Of Life. The Nameless Men Who Nameless Rivers Travel, And In Strange Valleys Greet Strange Deaths Alone; The Grim, Intrepid Ones Who Would Unravel The Mysteries That Shroud The Polar Zone. These Will I Sing, And If One Of You Linger Over My Pages In The Long, Long Night, And On Some Lone Line Lay A Calloused Finger, Saying: "It's Human-True - It Hits Me Right"; Then Will I Count This Loving Toil Well Spent; Then Will I Dream Awhile - Content, Content.