Five fathoms deep;
Holding the one reward
Carved by a dripping sword,
Feasts, and above them stored
Ceiling-high sleep.
Save to the conqueror Life was put-off Dying,
And Death brought nothing but the irk of lying—
How long—with over-restful hosts abed.
The rough immortals, whom he met unshrinking,
Spared him from nothing but the pain of thinking.