weak with pain and old loss,

[32]

and exile and despair—

our hearts break but to speak

your name, Oknaleos—

and may we but call you in the feverish wrack

of our storm-strewn beach, Eretmeos,

and our hurt is quiet and our hearts tamed,

as the sea may yet be tamed,

and we vow to float great ships,

named for each hero,

and oar-blades, cut out of mountain-trees

as such men might have shaped:

Eretmeos and the sea is swept,

baffled by the lordly shape,

Akroneos has pines for his ship's keel;

to love, to mate the sea?

Ah there is Ponteos,

the very deeps roar,

hailing you dear—

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