Synopsis

Over the great windy waters, and over the clear-crested summits, Unto the sun and the sky, and unto the perfecter earth, Come, let us go,—to a land wherein gods of the old time wandered, Where every breath even now changes to ether divine. Come, let us go; though withal a voice whisper, 'The world that we live in, Whithersoever we turn, still is the same narrow crib; 'Tis but to prove limitation, and measure a cord, that we travel; Let who would 'scape and be free go to his chamber and think; 'Tis but to change idle fancies for memories wilfully falser; 'Tis but to go and have been.'—Come, little bark! let us go. I. Claude to Eustace. Dear Eustatio, I write that you may write me an answer, Or at the least to put us again en rapport with each other. Rome disappoints me much,—St Peter's, perhaps, in especial; Only the Arch of Titus and view from the Lateran please me: This, however, perhaps is the weather, which truly is horrid. Greece must be better, surely; and yet I am feeling so spiteful, That I could travel to Athens, to Delphi, and Troy, and Mount Sinai, Though but to see with my eyes that these are vanity also.