  I, who lie warming here by your good fire, Was once Prometheus and elsewhere have lain; Ah, still in dreams they come,—the sudden chain, The swooping birds, the silence, the desire Of pitying, powerless eyes, the night, and higher The keen stars; (if you please I fill again The bowl, Silenus)—; yet ’twas common pain Their beaks’ mad rooting; O, but they would tire, And one go circling o’er the misty vast On great, free wings, and one sit, head out-bent, Poised for the plunge; then ’twas I crushed the cry “Zeus, Zeus, I kiss your feet, and learn at last The baseness of this crude self-government Matched with glad impulse and blind liberty.” |
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