The waking song and the dying measure
Meet, and the waxing and waning light
Meet, and faint with the hours of pleasure,
The rose of the sea and the sky is white.
THE DEPARTURE FROM PHÆACIA.
THE PHÆACIANS.
Why from the dreamy meadows,
More fair than any dream,
Why will you seek the shadows
Beyond the ocean stream?
Through straits of storm and peril,
Through firths unsailed before,
Why make you for the sterile,
The dark Kimmerian shore?
There no bright streams are flowing,
There day and night are one,
No harvest time, no sowing,
No sight of any sun;
No sound of song or tabor,
No dance shall greet you there;
No noise of mortal labour,
Breaks on the blind chill air.
Are ours not happy places,
Where Gods with mortals trod?
Saw not our sires the faces
Of many a present God?
THE SEEKERS.
Nay, now no God comes hither,
In shape that men may see;
They fare we know not whither,
We know not what they be.