A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/Sonnet—Homer (Ferdinand de Gramont)
Sonnet.—HOMER.
O wild young savage, wrapt in Homer's lore,
Who fliest the talk of our logicians wise,
And sports, and rich-decked feasts, and beauty's eyes,
What dost thou, night and day, along the shore!
I wait. For what! Grand is that hungry roar
Of storm-vexed ocean as it earth defies,
But grander are these histories. They are lies,
And wasted hours no penance can restore.
I care not. I would see, as here I roam,
Astarté rise immortal from the foam,
Whom in my dreams I worship. Hope commands
A patient out-look to the sky's dim line,
For often have I seen upon these sands,
The impress of her conch and foot divine.