Sonnet XI

Like to a ship that storms urge on its course,

By its own trials our soul is surer made.

The very things that make the voyage

Do make it better; its peril is its aid.

And, as the storm drives from the storm, our

Within the peril disimperilled grows;

A port is near the more from port we part--The port whereto our driven direction goes.

If we reap knowledge to cross-profit,

From storms we learn, when the storm's height doth drive--That the black presence of its violence

The pushing promise of near far blue skies.  Learn we but how to have the pilot-skill,  And the storm's very might shall mate our will.