Sonnet CCCXVI

The wind is sure of where he’ll voyage –
although he has not hue nor form –
he journeys with majestic carriage,
with surety of aim and course.

The sun is sure of where he travels –
his path as clear as how he dazzles –
he moves upon his bluish way,
and knows his end each finished day.

The rain is sure of where he courses –
his way is down, his path is straight –
he measures out his tapping gait,
and never varies from that rhythm.

And I – am sure of nullity;
dependent on a guiding breeze.