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As one that for a weary space has
lain
Lull’d by the song of Circe and her wine
In gardens near the pale of Proserpine,
Where that Ææan isle forgets the main,
And only the low lutes of love complain,
And only shadows of wan lovers pine –
As such a one were glad to know the brine
Salt on his lips, and the large air again –
So gladly from the songs of modern speech
Men turn, and see the stars, and feel the free
Shrill wind beyond the close of heavy
flowers,
And through the music of the languid
hours
They hear like Ocean on a western beach
The surge and thunder of the Odyssey.
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