PERHAPS you touched the sirens' isle, You stopped your ears, sailed far beyond; Perhaps you shunned Calypso's wile And Circe's all-transforming wand, But have you been at Trebizond? And did you of its honey eat -- A taste, at first, then more, and more! 'Tis wild, but it is passing sweet; No tended hives such nectar store, Nor richer Hebe's cup can pour. The bees work madly, hour by hour, And honey brims the amber comb; The mad bees make it from a flower That has the blush of sunset foam; And nowhere else is found its home. They, too, that eat thereof are mad! They weep -- and yet no grief is theirs; They laugh -- none knows if they are glad; They brood -- but they can have no cares; And to strange gods they lift strange prayers. They rave; they breathe out vaunting words That can command the sacred Nine! Then beauty flows, and strength upgirds; Almost the mortal they resign, And have themselves become divine! To each his passion is more dear Than any call of love or home ... I hunger, after many a year, For honey from that amber comb, And fain would beat the far sea foam, To search if there they yet abide Who would not snap the sorcerous bond; If, couched upon some green hill side, They have their waking visions fond -- Or do but sleep at Trebizond. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE GARDEN OF LOVE, FR. SONGS OF EXPERIENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE THE VALLEY BROOK by JOHN HOWARD BRYANT MY LOVE COULD WALK by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES IN MEMORIAM: W.G. WARD by ALFRED TENNYSON A SWING SONG by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM JIM DALLEY by ALEXANDER ANDERSON |