For the mead-drink of men the mew’s sad note.
Storms beat on the cliffs, ’mid the cry of gulls,
Icy of feather; and the eagle screamed,
25 The dewy-winged bird. No dear friend comes
With merciful kindness my misery to conquer.
Of this little can he judge who has joy in his life,
And, settled in the city, is sated with wine,
And proud and prosperous— how painful it is
30 When I wearily wander on the waves full oft!
Night shadows descended; it snowed from the north;