Death closes all: but something ere the end,

Some work of noble note, may yet be done,

Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.

The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:

The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs; the deep

Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,

’Tis not too late to seek a newer world.

Push off, and, sitting well in order, smite