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Idea
Idea blazes in darkness, a lonely star. The witching hour is not twelve, but one. Pure thought, in principle, some say, is near Madness, but the independent mind thinks on, Breathing and burning, abstract as the air. Supposing all this were a game of chess. One learned to do without the pieces first, And then the board; and finally, I guess, Without the game. The lightship gone adrift, Endangering others with its own distress. O holy light! All other stars are gone, The shapeless constellations sag and fall Till navigation fails, though ships go on This merry, mad adventure as before Their single-minded masters meant to drown.