Now when the street-pent airs blow stale
A longing stirs us as of yore
To take the old Odyssian trail,
To bend upon the trireme's oar
For isled stream and hill-bound shore;
To lay aside the dirty pen
For summer's blue and golden store
'Neath other skies, 'mid stranger men!
Then let the rover's call prevail
That opes for us the enchanted door,
That bids us stretch the silken sail
For bays o'er which the seabirds soar,
And foam-flecked rollers pitch and roar,
Where nymph maybe, and mermaiden,
Come beachward to the moonrise hoar,
'Neath other skies, 'mid stranger men!
Blue-eyed Calypsos, Circes pale
(The sage who shuns them I abhor),
These--for a fortnight--shall not fail
To thrill the heart's susceptive core,
To bind us with their ancient lore,
Who rather like to listen when
Sweet-lipp'd the sirens voice their score,
'Neath other skies, 'mid stranger men!