Andrew Lang.

1844-1912

839    The Odyssey

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 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 a western beach
  The surge and thunder of the Odyssey.

  By PanEris using Melati.

Previous chapter Back Home Email this Search Discuss Next chapter
Copyright: All texts on Bibliomania are © Bibliomania.com Ltd, and may not be reproduced in any form without our written permission. See our FAQ for more details.