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Landfall

By John Howland Beaumont / April 10, 1980



This far then have I come from wanderings, Myself and this my one small craft with sails Now furled upon the storms as fold the wings Of peace on sleep. Tomorrow ere it pales We will remember moon-white Troy and where Scamander's bitter mists crept to the plains. We will remember cold and weary care Of tempest wind and the embattled rains That beat along those vast imperilled seas. Blind Scylla and Charybdis and the years Of heaving waters we have come ease. But here, by jewelled highways of the stars, From his becalmed port of silence and This splendid night, we look across the foam To Ithaca, dove-haunted honey-golden land Of all our dreams -- our kingdom and our home.

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