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Never our comrades came again, never their boat return'd.
And some one long long Winter slept and waked no more in Spring,
And some were lost who rowed at night to hear the mermaid sing.
More witching music they had heard had they but heart to wait
Melody passing sirens' song, in Island Fortunate.
Young-hearted as at setting forthgrey-headed, say the churls?
'Tis that the sea-spray dusts with white our salt-encumber'd curls.
Still in a wild and wintry waste we fare upon our quest
Not elsewhere can we find a home, nor otherwhere a rest.
To catch what wind of Heaven may blow, our sails are still unfurl'd,
