Is wordlessly prolonged, stretched out beside the brine.
VI.
Such Lotos-eating all at times must seek!
The Lotos blows by many an English creek.
Punch is no "mild-eyed melancholy" coon,
Born, like the Laureate's islanders, to moon
In lands in which 'tis always afternoon.
No, TOBY, no! Yet stretch your tawny muzzle
Upon these tawny sands! We will not puzzle,
For a few happy hours, our weary pates