Charmides

HE was a Grecian lad, who coming home

With pulpy figs and wine from Sicily

Stood at his galley's prow, and let the foam

Blow through his crisp brown curls unconsciously

And holding wave and wind in boy's despite

Peered from his dripping seat across the wet and stormy night

Till with the dawn he saw a burnished spear

Like a thin thread of gold against the sky