XIV

Sweetly at length, like faithful love abused By cold neglect, in this domed interval Of silent time returns with soft footfall The echo of a music long disused. Ah me, before such strains I stand accused, So early known, and then my all in all, And with the magic of the morning’s call And ethos of my children interfused— A nameless sense of youth that will not die, While Homer’s volleying dactyls surging send The music of the wind-entangled seas Around the world, and as the billows fly, Shouldering each other shorewards, metely blend His harping with the thunderous centuries.