The prickling, bubbling, boat,

Groaning straight and steady,

Making brook and twenty.

Riding meddlesome, kicking sea,

We must not must not be,

That we stack ourselves in decks along the

parting,

That we are us but aimlessly, up, down the

river.

The prostrate shadow the black half-way,

The curling rope, oh God we cannot beat it!

This reflection that is blank and the same

Makes us tremble, distraught, tame.

There is sun to do the throwing.

There is a loving love blowing,

You before my eyes and miles on the row to

break gold,

Bright roads, bright roads, bright roads.