LII
To learn the transport by the pain,As blind men learn the sun;To die of thirst, suspectingThat brooks in meadows run;
To stay the homesick, homesick feetUpon a foreign shoreHaunted by native lands, the while,And blue, beloved air—
This is the sovereign anguish,This, the signal woe!These are the patient laureatesWhose voices, trained below,
Ascend in ceaseless carol,Inaudible, indeed,To us, the duller scholarsOf the mysterious bard!