Not shadowy or pale were they,
          But limbed like those who ’twixt the trees
          Follow the swift of goddesses. 
          Sunburnt they are somewhat, indeed,
          To where the rough brown woolen weed
          Is drawn across their bosoms sweet,
          Or cast from off their dancing feet;
          But yet the stars, the moonlight gray,
          The water wan, the dawn of day,
          Can see their bodies fair and white
          As hers, who once, for man’s delight,
          Before the world grew hard and old,
          Came o’er the bitter sea and cold;
          And surely those that met me there
          Her handmaidens and subjects were;
          And shame-faced, half-repressed desire
          Had lit their glorious eyes with fire,
          That maddens eager hearts of men. 
          Oh, would that I were with them when
          The risen moon is gathering light,
          And yellow from the homestead white
          The windows gleam; but verily
          This waits us o’er a little sea.

     The Sirens:
          Come to the land where none grows old,
          And none is rash or over-bold
          Nor any noise there is or war,
          Or rumor from wild lands afar,
          Or plagues, or birth and death of kings;
          No vain desire of unknown things
          Shall vex you there, no hope or fear
          Of that which never draweth near;
          But in that lovely land and still
          Ye may remember what ye will,
          And what ye will, forget for aye. 
          So while the kingdoms pass away,
          Ye sea-beat hardened toilers erst,
          Unresting, for vain fame athirst,
          Shall be at peace for evermore,
          With hearts fulfilled of Godlike lore,
          And calm, unwavering Godlike love,
          No lapse of time can turn or move. 
          There, ages after your fair fleece
          Is clean forgotten, yea, and Greece
          Is no more counted glorious,
          Alone with us, alone with us,
          Alone with us, dwell happily,
          Beneath our trembling roof of sea.

     Orpheus: 
          Ah! do ye weary of the strife,
          And long to change this eager life
          For shadowy and dull hopelessness,
          Thinking indeed to gain no less
          Than this, to die, and not to die,
          To be as if ye ne’er had been,
          Yet keep your memory fresh and green,
          To have no thought of good or ill,
          Yet keep some thrilling pleasure still? 
          Oh, idle dream!  Ah, verily
          If it shall happen unto me
          That I have thought of anything,
          When o’er my bones the sea-fowl sing,
          And I lie dead, how shall I pine