For alien ears our lay;
But, by the sea’s low moan,
Sportive we go alone;
Our lyre’s notes are dead—our measured hymn is done.”
Then died the hymning sonnet, worded well,
Adown the oaken boles that pillared all the dell.
* * * * *
Then all a day and night athwart the sea—
A day and night complete we backward sped—
And as the dawn grew red—