No sun without new troubles, and new groans,
Shone on our voyage; and when at length we landed,
Our woes were doubled; ’neath the hostile walls,
On marshy meads night-sprinkled by the dews,
We slept, our clothes rotted with drenching rain,
And like wild beasts with shaggy-knotted hair.
Why should I tell bird-killing winter’s sorrows,
Long months of suffering from Idéan snows,
Then summer’s scorching heat, when noon beheld
The waveless sea beneath the windless air