Toil, toil, and toil on toil!

Where have my steps not roamed, and yet,

No place that hath a secret for my ear.

Hist! hist! what sound was that?

’Tis we, thy mates.

What cheer, mates?

All westward of the fleet we’ve ranged and found

Found, say you!

Of moil enow, of what we sought no trace.

No better luck to the eastward; on the road

That fronts the sunrise not a trace of him.

O that some toiling fisher by the bay,

Dragging his nets all night,

Some Oread from Olympus’ height,

Or nymph who haunts the tides of Bosporus,

Might spy the wanderer on his wayward way

And bring the tale to us.

Hard lot is ours who tack

To east, to west, and find no track,

Ne’er in our luckless course descry