We have struck the regions wherein we are keel or reef.
The wind breaks over us,
And against high sharp angles almost splits into words,
And these are of fear or grief.
Like a ship, we have struck expected latitudes Of the universe, in March.
Through one short segment’s arch Of the zodiac’s round We pass,
Thinking:
Now we hear What we heard last year,
And bear the wind’s rude touch And its ugly sound Equally with so much We have learned how to bear.
