XVII

MY Wheel is in the dark,—

I cannot see a spoke,

Yet know its dripping feet

Go round and round.

My foot is on the tide—

An unfrequented road,

Yet have all roads

A “clearing” at the end.

Some have resigned the Loom,

Some in the busy tomb

Find quaint employ,

Some with new, stately feet

Pass royal through the gate,

Flinging the problem back at you and I.