And those long days of ever-vigilant toil,
Scarcely with sleepless craft and unmoved front
Escaping robbers, that quiet restful eve
At rich Gortyna, where we lay and watched
The dripping foliage, and the darkening fields,
And over all huge-browed above the night
Ida’s great summit with its fiery crown;
And then once more the stormy treacherous sea,
The noisy ship, the seamen’s vehement cries,
That battled with the whistling wind, the feet
Reeling upon the swaying deck, and eyes
Strained anxiously toward land; ah, with what joy
At last the busy pier at Nauplia,
Rest and firm shelter for our racking brains: 
Most sweet of all, most dear to memory
That journey with Euktemon through the hills
By fair Cleonae and the lofty pass;
Then Corinth with its riotous jollity,
Remembered like a reeling dream; and here
Good Theron’s wedding, and this festal day;
And I, chief helper in its various rites,
Not least, commissioned through these wakeful hours
To dream before the quiet thalamos,
Unsleeping, like some full-grown bearded Eros,
The guardian of love’s sweetest mysteries. 
To-morrow I shall hear again the din
Of the loosed cables, and the rowers’ chaunt,
The rattled cordage and the plunging oars. 
Once more the bending sail shall bear us on
Across the level of the laughing sea. 
Ere mid-day we shall see far off behind us,
Faint as the summit of a sultry cloud,
The white Acropolis.  Past Sunium
With rushing keel, the long Euboean strand,
Hymettus and the pine-dark hills shall fade
Into the dusk:  at Andros we shall water,
And ere another starlight hush the shores
From seaward valleys catch upon the wind
The fragrance of old Chian vintages. 
At Chios many things shall fall but none
Can trace the future; rather let me dream
Of what is now, and what hath been, for both
Are fraught with life.

Here the unbroken silence
Awakens thought and makes remembrance sweet. 
How solidly the brilliant moonlight shines
Into the courts; beneath the colonnades
How dense the shadows.  I can scarcely see
Yon painted Dian on the darkened wall;
Yet how the gloom hath made her real.  What sound,
Piercing the leafy covert of her couch,
Hath startled her.  Perchance some prowling wolf,
Or luckless footsteps of the stealthy Pan,
Creeping at night among noiseless steeps
And hollows of the Erymanthian woods,
Roused her from sleep.  With listening head,
Snatched bow, and quiver lightly slung, she stands,
And peers across that dim and motionless glade,
Beckoning about her heels the wakeful dogs;
Yet Dian, thus alert, is but a dream,
Making more real this brooding quietness. 
How strong and wonderful is night!  Mankind
Has yielded all to one sweet helplessness: 
Thought, labour, strife and all activities
Have ebbed like fever.  The smooth tide of sleep,