Classic Poem

Billowing clouds surging across the heavens
Merge into dawn's hazy mist.
Sails in their thousands toss and dance
As the Milky Way recedes.
In a vision I find myself before the Heavenly Ruler,
Who asks solicitously
Where I wish to be off to.

“My journey is a long one,” I reply.
“The sun is setting all too soon.
And my brilliant poetic attempts, alas!
Have come to no purpose.”
Presently a whirlwind rises, and lo!
The Mighty Roc is winging to the Empyrean
On a flight of ninety thousand tricents.
Blow, O Whirlwind! Blow on without cease.
Blow my tiny craft to the three far-off isles
Where the Immortals dwell.