Just to amuse themselves, deckhands will often take
A great sea-bird, an albatross –
One of those that plane above the ship’s white wake
As it pitches over briny chasms, shipwrecks, dross.
No sooner have they plonked it on the deck, those boors
Than the lord of deep blue air, as if shamed,
Lets its huge wings droop like oars
To trail beside it, self-conscious, maimed.
How clumsy and useless he is, who was so noble,
A moment ago; how comical and vile,
The winged voyager! One old salt sticks a pipe in his bill;
Another mimics him, limping, cripple-style.
The Poet is a lot like this prince of the clouds,
Who haunts the storm, and mocks the archer taking aim;
On earth, exiled among the jeering crowds,
It’s his own great wings that make him lame.