Half guide, half tempter toward the stream of error, 
On whose fresh bosom many a mariner 
Puts out with silken sail—to find his grave 
In its voluptuous wave. 
 
Here are few rocks whereon a ship hath peril ; 
No storms may ruffle its insidious stream ; 
Only, no fish invade its waters sterile, 
No white-winged birds above it glance and gleam, 
Only, it hath no shore, no wave, but gloom 
Wraps it within her womb. 
 
No sun is mirrored in its treacherous water, 
Only the false moon flickers and flits by 
Like to the bloodless phantom shape of slaughter 
Laughing a lipless laugh—a mockery, 
A ghastly memory to wake and weep 
—Should Sorrow let me sleep. 
 
No current draws a man, to his fair seeming, 
Yet all the while he whirls a stealthy sweep 
Narrower, nearer, where the wave is steaming 
With the slight spray tossed from that funnel deep 
 
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