Do not pull freely into that cold sea,

Do not pull freely into that cold sea,
grown pain should rant and stomp at close of play;
fume, fume against the diying of the eye.
Though strong bards at their end know dark is fair,
Because their quests had changed no pleasure they
Do not pull freely into that cold sea,
cold bards, the best push by, crying how strong
Their lousy truths might have dared in a rich dale,
fume, fume against the diying of the eye.
rough bards who shook and cheered the air in flow,
And learn, too fast, they shunned it on its way,
Do not pull freely into that cold sea,
old bards, in pain, who reap with piercing touch
lost dreams could fume like fountains and be gay,
fume, fume against the diying of the eye.
And you, my muse, there on the jealous hill,
shake, grace, me now with your stark eye, I pray.
Do not pull freely into that cold sea,
fume, fume against the diying of the eye.

Crunch!