Classic Poem

Thus, naked, frightful, gaunt with loathsome food,
A Slave, — my body still retains the scars, —
I was born free, where, rising toward the stars,
Old honeyed Hybla lifts his mountain hood.
Alas, I left the happy isle! O friend,
If ever, following the swans' Spring flight,
Your galley's course toward Syracuse shall tend,
Seek her who was my love and my delight.
Is it ordained that I shall ever see
Her somber violet eyes, her heavenly smile,
Caught from the sky when all the gods were young?
Be merciful. Go! Seek Cleariste for me,
And tell her to await me yet a while, —
Know her you will, for she is always sad.