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-5/
