O virgin world! O marvellous far days!
No more with dreams of grief doth love grow bitter,
Nor trouble dim the lustre wont to glitter
In happy eyes. Decay alone decays:
A moment — death's dull sleep is o'er; and we
Drink the immortal morning air, Earine.
...
" Si mihi Nausicai patrios concederet hortos,
Alcinoo possem dicere, Malo meos ."