Chapter 9 No.9

We are like whirling tops and rolling balls-

For even when the sleepy night-time falls,

Old Curiosity still thrusts us on,

Like the cruel Angel who goads forth the sun.

The end of fate fades ever through the air,

And, being nowhere, may be anywhere

Where a man runs, hope waking in his breast,

For ever like a madman, seeking rest.

Our souls are wandering ships outwearied;

And one upon the bridge asks: "What's ahead?"

The topman's voice with an exultant sound

Cries: "Love and Glory!"-then we run aground.

Each isle the pilot signals when 'tis late,

Is El Dorado, promised us by fate-

Imagination, spite of her belief,

Finds, in the light of dawn, a barren reef.

Oh the poor seeker after lands that flee!

Shall we not bind and cast into the sea

This drunken sailor whose ecstatic mood

Makes bitterer still the water's weary flood?

Such is an old tramp wandering in the mire,

Dreaming the paradise of his own desire,

Discovering cities of enchanted sleep

Where'er the light shines on a rubbish heap.