Classic Poem

Wearily the mariners bend to their toil
Under the light of the noonday sun;
Sadly they stoop, and bitterly think
On the glad days long over and done.

Wastes of pitiless gleaming waves
Gird them about, and in mocking glee
Rolls and plashes against their keel
The pauseless jeer of the cruel sea.

Dreams of the distant island home,
Dreams of wife and questioning child,
Hover before their brooding minds',
People the air with images mild.

Terrible shores untrodden of men,
Lying athwart their ways they find,
Infested with beasts, and dreary with moans,
Making the day beclouded and blind.

Past the perilous charm of the isles
Sirens encircle with luring song,
They have sailed, heart-drawn to the blooming shores,
Barely escaping their grievous wrong.

Master, O master, Ulysses wise,
Lead us beyond the monotonous main;
Inly we weep, and long to see
Ithaca's woods and grassy plain.

Ithaca, Ithaca, home of our hearts,
Shine in the glory of sunset gold!
Shine a soft, rosy cloud in the west,
Grow on our sight as our way we hold!

Subtly the master smiles with his eyes,
Points them afar and bids them wait;
Many a time, or ere they return,
Shall the sun pass his western gate.

Secure in the distance the island lies;
Surely some day its cloudy shape,
Rising, shall glad their straining gaze,
Bent on well-loved harbor and cape.