NOON AT PÆSTUM

Lord of the Sea, we sun-filled creatures raise

Our hands among the clamorous weeds,— we too.

Lord of the Sun, and of the upper blue,

Of all To-morrow, and all yesterdays,

Here, where the thousand broken names and ways

Of worship are but shards we wandered through,

There is no gift to offer, or undo;

There is no prayer left in us, only praise.

Only to glory in this glory here,

Through the dead smoke of myriad sacrifice;—

To look through these blue spaces, blind and clear

Even as the seaward gaze of Homer's eyes;

And from uplifted heart, and cup, to pour

Wine to the Unknown God.— We ask no more.