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What am I but a sodden raft
Who once led fleets where few may go,
Armadas envied me my craft—
At disenchantment, cocks would crow!

There was no map—the skill was lent,
No matter how I curl and cower
The mantle shall be passed—unrent—
A disenchantment risks its power.

Some say there are no Muses—nor
Such spirits with their fey embrace,
But I have claimed them by the score
And disenchantment has no place.

My wells are loneliness—sans tears,
The very hope of joy is wrecked,
But still, my Muse may calms my fears,
All disenchantment I reject.