Μἡ κίνη χέραδας·
STIR not the shingle with thy boat,
It groans beneath the keel;
Still on the senseless waters float,
Until thy heart can feel;
Keep to Ægaean tracts of fair,
The land cries out in pain to bear
One who from love is free.
Yea, linger 'mid the barren foam,
Ungreeted, out of reach
Of those who watch the sailor home
On Mitylene's beach.
Oh, I forget that Love's own Queen
Is called the Ocean-born ;
Forth from the wine-dark waves, first seen,
She sprang in grace forlorn :
Forget that once across the sea,
Thou, with thy swinging oar,
Did'st row the goddess mightily,
Careless of coin, to shore.
She gave thee beauty—love's delight
Would give thee. Sail away !
Learn from the natal waves her might,
Then joyous seek the bay.