What the Sirens Sang
>
> To H.H.
>
> Navigavit quidem non ut Palinurus, sed ut Ulysses: immo velut nempe Plato.
> — Sir Thomas More, Utopia
>
> Come, then O great Odysseus,
> Come, you man of many turns.
> Wisest of the Greeks is Odysseus,
> Well-skilled in arts of peace and war,
> A hero blown from windy plains of Troy.
> Crafter of the horse, craftiest of Greeks,
> Well-beloved of the wise goddess.
>
> Rest, then O great Odysseus,
> Rest here upon these rocks.
> Sail no more into rosy-fingered dawn,
> Our weary hero from the gates of Troy,
> Much buffeted on the sea, you suffer, Odysseus.
> From the unrelenting wrath of cruel Poseidon,
> Harsh master of this wine dark sea,
> You suffer long indignities.
> It is not right that such as you should suffer.
>
> Come, then O great Odysseus
> And we shall crown you with laurel
> And pour forth libations and
> You shall be King over
> These rocks and not over these alone,
> For we can grant dominion over all,
> Even over the churning sea of time.
> Come hither, come home.
> These rocks shall be Elysium for you.
>
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