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 Aeaean 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.