Next day I prayed—O, how I prayed: the gods
Were merciful: that night—O, night of nights,
For in its hours the Past became entombed—O, realm of dead delights,
We fled from Crete, and, steering out to sea,
I dreaming always on his manly breast,
At last made land—a desolate wave-worn strand, the sea-gull’s sandy nest.
I seemed to wake, and found the traitor gone:
I stood in anguish, desolate and lone,
Wasting my wailings on the flinty rocks whose hearts (like his) were stone.
But still I dreamed, and once more Athens rose