 | Mansoul or The Riddle of the World |  |
Hundred and hundred léagues' way, after this,
We glide, we speed; much líke those hobbling leaves.
Which blustering March hurls forth: seemed our flit feet,
More rathe than swallows' flight. In headlong race;
Seemed memory daze, and swoon our feeble sense.
Whiles still, as steel to loadstone drawn, we haste.
Rise up, to meet our breasts, and neath us pass;
One after other, seemed Hels hundred paths.
Wherein no more we wot than this, That lies;
Henceforth before our steps, long homeward course.
We glide, we speed; much líke those hobbling leaves.
Which blustering March hurls forth: seemed our flit feet,
More rathe than swallows' flight. In headlong race;
Seemed memory daze, and swoon our feeble sense.
Whiles still, as steel to loadstone drawn, we haste.
Rise up, to meet our breasts, and neath us pass;
One after other, seemed Hels hundred paths.
Wherein no more we wot than this, That lies;
Henceforth before our steps, long homeward course.
| Mansoul or The Riddle of the World | |