Thou, the hyacinth that grows 5
By a quiet-running river;
I, the watery reflection
And the broken gleam.
XXXIX
I grow weary of the foreign cities,
The sea travel and the stranger peoples.
Even the clear voice of hardy fortune
Dares me not as once on brave adventure.
For the heart of man must seek and wander, 5
Ask and question and discover knowledge;
Yet above all goodly things is wisdom,
And love greater than all understanding.
So, a mariner, I long for land-fall,—
When a darker purple on the sea-rim, 10
O’er the prow uplifted, shall be Lesbos
And the gleaming towers of Mitylene.
XL
Ah, what detains thee, Phaon,
So long from Mitylene,
Where now thy restless lover
Wearies for thy coming?
A fever burns me, Phaon; 5
My knees quake on the threshold,
And all my strength is loosened,
Slack with disappointment.
But thou wilt come, my Phaon,
Back from the sea like morning, 10
To quench in golden gladness
The ache of parted lovers.