Those are the masts of ships moving above the corn.
I seem to have reached my destination, the end
Of a pilgrimage whose beginnings are obscure,
Not to be reconstructed, really, at this date.

It is as if I have come here before myself.
I am not ready; I should be studying still,
Pondering the good works of my loving masters.
No matter that they are long dead; their words are wise,

So wise that at my best the air was scorched, riven,
And in faith I seemed to be beginning at last.
I don’t think, though, that I am at my best today –
The corn stinks of something low, the tall masts tremble.

I am too soon and before myself to this place
For heroes? How strange that I cannot retreat,
Find again the old rooms with their slumbering books,
Compose myself for the labour of beginning.