Here follows some lines from a long poem by Wallace Stevens.
Nota: man is the intelligence of his soil.
What counted was mythology of self
Could Crispin stem verboseness in the sea
The salt hung on his spirit like a frost,
some starker, barer self
Crispin
Became an introspective voyager.
Crispin beheld and Crispin was made new.
He came. The poetic hero without palms
Or jugglery, without regalia.
And as he came he saw that it was spring,
His western voyage ended and began.
Was he to bray this in profoundest brass
Scrawl a tragedian's testament?
proving what he proves
Is nothing, what can all this matter since
The relation comes, benignly, to its end?
