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 worseDo make it better; its peril is its aid.And, as the storm drives from the storm, our heartWithin 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, thisFrom storms we learn, when the storm’s height doth drive—That the black presence of its violence isThe 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.
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 worseDo make it better; its peril is its aid.And, as the storm drives from the storm, our heartWithin 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, thisFrom storms we learn, when the storm’s height doth drive—That the black presence of its violence isThe 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.