The billows imaginary, in the mind, to debar,
That the our scale not, for the thought, "it's too far",
Mixed figment and images enclose the eyes of the mind,
To debar the craven from the good he might find.
In mind of the miles doth the windy flinch,
Not to wit: inch by inch, it's only a cinch,
And the feet scale not , for the thought, "too distant",
And to counsel to advance! The craven is flippant.
The billows of life at which we quiver,
That we blench the lose wits from the silver,
Have become our lurking enemy,
And will, with bliss, hold not to give us ignominy.
Fret not to vie fro the sky for stars,
The billows in the mind are but imaginary Bars.
