AS one that for a weary space has lain <br /> Lull'd by the song of Circe and her wine <br /> In gardens near the pale of Proserpine, <br />Where that Aeaean isle forgets the main, <br />And only the low lutes of love complain, <br /> And only shadows of wan lovers pine-- <br /> As such an one were glad to know the brine <br />Salt on his lips, and the large air again-- <br />So gladly from the songs of modern speech <br /> Men turn, and see the stars, and feel the free <br /> Shrill wind beyond the close of heavy flowers, <br /> And through the music of the languid hours <br />They hear like Ocean on a western beach <br /> The surge and thunder of the Odyssey.<br /><br />Andrew Lang<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-odyssey-2/
