As one that for a weary space has lain
Lulled by the song of Circe and her wine
In gardens near the Pale of Proserpine
Where that Aegean 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 her face and the large air again
So gladly from the songs of modern speech
She turns and sees the stars
and feels the free
Shrill wind beyond this close
of heavy flowers
And through the music of the languid hours
She hears like Ocean on a western beach
The surge and thunder of her Odyssey.
Stephen
| Uhura |
| 4, Jan 2001 |
| Stephen |