Andrew Lang (1844–1912)

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 Æean isle forgets the main,

And only the low lutes of love complain,

And only shadows of wan lovers pine—

As such an 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 the western beach

The surge and thunder of the Odyssey.