Theris the old, the waves that harvested,
More keen than birds that labor in the sea,
With spear and net, by shore and rocky bed
Not with the well-manned galley, labored he;
Him not the Star of Storms, nor sudden sweep
Of wind with all his years hath smitten and bent.
But in his hut of reeds he fell asleep,
As fades a lamp when all the oil is spent:
This tomb nor wife nor children raised, but we
His fellow-toilers, fishers of the sea.