Wakefulness. Homer. Taut sails.
I have read half the list of ships:
The outstretched brood, the string of cranes
That once soared over Hellas.
Like a wedge of cranes into alien lands—
Divine foam on the heads of the kings—
Where are you sailing? Were it not for Helen,
What would Troy be to you, Achaean men?
The sea and Homer—both impelled by love.
To whom shall I listen? And now Homer is silent,
And a black sea, with its ornate noise,
Approaches my pillow with a ponderous roar.