Excerpt from Christ in Italy: Being the Adventures of a Maverick Among Masterpieces
The Song of the Maverick.
I am too arid for tears, and for laughter
Too sore with unslaked desires.
My nights are scanty of sleep
And my sleep too full of dreaming;
The frosts are not cold enough
Nor the nights sufficiently burning:
The hollow waves are slack
And no wind from any quarter
Lifts strongly enough to outwear me.
My body is bitter with baffled lusts
Of work and love and endurance;
As a maverick, leaderless, lost from the herd,
Loweth my soul with the need of man-encounters.
For I am crammed and replete
With the power of desolate places;
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