65
ELEGIACS.
WEARILY stretches the sand to the surge, and the surge to the cloudland;
Wearily onward I ride, watching the water alone.
Not as of old, like Homeric Achilles, κυδεἲ γαιων,
Joyous knight-errant of God, thirsting for labour and strife;
No more on magical steed borne free through the regions of ether,
But, like the hack which I ride, selling my sinew for gold.
Fruit-bearing autumn is gone; let the sad quiet winter hang o'er me—
What were the spring to a soul laden with sorrow and shame?
Wearily onward I ride, watching the water alone.
Not as of old, like Homeric Achilles, κυδεἲ γαιων,
Joyous knight-errant of God, thirsting for labour and strife;
No more on magical steed borne free through the regions of ether,
But, like the hack which I ride, selling my sinew for gold.
Fruit-bearing autumn is gone; let the sad quiet winter hang o'er me—
What were the spring to a soul laden with sorrow and shame?
