On either side lie, fathomless and dim,
Wide plains where wander phantoms stark and grim.
Noon comes; the goal no nearer, on we haste,
Nor note the lengthening shadows of the past.
Luring us on we hear the far, faint moan
Of music, weird and sweet as Memnon’s tone,
Heard in the desert by the traveller lone;
Bewildering as the sounds the shepherds erst
Heard in the vales of Thessaly, when first
Apollo’s wondrous music on them burst.