Buffeted² by such seas；

    Bland³ Rhadamanthus beckons⁴ him，

    But the Golden Race looks dim，

    Salt blood blocks his eyes.

    Scattered⁵ on the level grass

    Or winding⁶ through the grove⁷

    Plato there and Minos pass，

    There stately Pythagoras

    And all the choir⁸ of Love.