A wrinkled Homer craning from the wall,
A bee-like murmuring of ai's and oi's;
And you, a king, dark-bearded, on your throne,—
A king of gentle bearing and soft speech,
No scepter ringing and no trumpet blown,
But nature's own authority to teach.
A stranger-lad I steal into my place
And five and thirty years are quickly gone.
The same sweet balsam breathes upon my face,
The old Hellenic brook is purling on.