As simply as a young child might, who cries
For honey from his father’s liberal hive.
I will go down at dawn; I will seek out
The Christian bishop, who shall lift me up,
A soul baptized.... Some lanthorn is beyond,
And moving. Hail, there! Would that I could say,
“The gods be kind to thee!”
A Voice. And why not, friend?
Thou greetest Cratidas, an old sad man,
On his home-going track.