EDITORIAL NOTE TO POETRY

Is e'en for chamois here no track? So here I wait and firmly clasp What eye and hand will let me grasp! Five-foot-broad ledge, red morning's breath, And under me—world, man, and death! JOYFUL WISDOM This is no book—for such, who looks? Coffins and shrouds, naught else, are books! What's dead and gone they make their prey, Yet in my book lives fresh To-day. This is no book—for such, who looks? Who cares for coffins, shrouds, and spooks? This is a promise, an act of will, A last bridge-breaking, for good or ill; A wind from sea, an anchor light, A whirr of wheels, a steering right. The cannon roars, white smokes its flame, The sea—the monster—laughs and scents its game. DEDICATION³⁸ He who has much to tell, keeps much