A grave futility of words and sighs,
these fruitless porters void of pregnant means
impeach the cries that tether Ego's ties
to all the magistrate of Id's machines.
And yet, tho stars deride the mortal strum
as liveliness of trifles or disdain,
the founts of Delphi shall my pen become
to scribe on Triton's waves with high refrain—
O come, waters deep, swiftly from your keep!