I

Upon the Siren-haunted seas, between Fate’s mythic shores, Within a world of moon and mist, where dusk and daylight wed, I see a phantom galley and its hull is banked with oars, With ghostly oars that move to song, a song of dreams long dead:--

“Oh, we are sick of rowing here! With toil our arms are numb; With smiting year on weary year Salt-furrows of the foam: Our journey’s end is never near, And will no nearer come-- Beyond our reach the shores appear Of far Elysium.”