by Allen Tate

    Where we went in the boat was a long bay

    a slingshot wide， walled in by towering stone——

    Peaked margin¹ of antiquity's delay，

    And we went there out of time's monotone：

    Where we went in the black hull² no light moved

    But a gull³ white-winged along the feckless wave，

    The breeze， unseen but fierce as a body loved，

    That boat drove onward⁴ like a willing slave：

    Where we went in the small ship the seaweed

    Parted and gave to us the murmuring shore

    And we made feast and in our secret need

    Devoured⁵ the very plates Aeneas bore：

    Where derelict you see through the low twilight⁶

    The green coast that you， thunder-tossed， would win，

    Drop sail， and hastening to drink all night

    Eat dish and bowl——to take that sweet land in！

    Where we feasted and caroused⁷ on the sandless

    Pebbles⁸， affecting our day of piracy⁹，

    What prophecy of eaten plates could landless

    Wanderers fulfil by the ancient sea？

    We for that time might taste the famous age

    Eternal here yet hidden from our eyes

    When lust¹⁰ of power undid¹¹ its stuffless rage；

    They， in a wineskin， bore earth's paradise.

    Let us lie down once more by the breathing side

    Of Ocean， where our live forefathers¹² sleep

    As if the Known Sea still were a month wide——

    Atlantis howls but is no longer steep！

    What country shall we conquer， what fair land

    Unman our conquest and locate our blood？

    We've cracked the hemispheres with careless hand！

    Now， from the Gates of Hercules we flood

    Westward¹³， westward till the barbarous brine

    Whelms us to the tired land where tasseling¹⁴ corn，

    Fat beans， grapes sweeter than muscadine

    Rot on the vine： in that land were we born.

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