“Courage!” he said, and pointed toward the land, “This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon.” In the afternoon they came into a land In which it seemed always afternoon. All around the coast the languid air did swoon, Breathing like one that hath a weary dream.
They sat them down upon the yellow sand, Between the sun and moon upon the shore; And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland, Of child, and wife, and slave; but evermore Most weary seem’d the sea, weary the oar, Weary the wandering fields of barren foam.
All things have rest: why should we toil alone, We only toil, who are the first of things, And make perpetual moan, Still from one sorrow to another thrown; Nor ever fold our wings, And cease from wanderings[.]
Dear is the memory of our wedded lives, And dear the last embraces of our wives And their warm tears; but all hath suffered change; For surely now our household hearths are cold, Our sons inherit us, our looks are strange And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy.
Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind, in the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclined On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind.
