Perhaps you touched the sirens' isle,
You stopped your ears, sailed far beyond;
Perhaps you shunned Calypso's wile
And Circe's all-transforming wand,
But have you been at Trebizond?

And did you of its honey eat —
A taste, at first, then more, and more!
'Tis wild, but it is passing sweet;
No tended hives such nectar store,
Nor richer Hebe's cup can pour.

The bees work madly, hour by hour,
And honey brims the amber comb;
The mad bees make it from a flower
That has the blush of sunset foam;
And nowhere else is found its home.

They, too, that eat thereof are mad!
They weep — and yet no grief is theirs;
They laugh — none knows if they are glad;
They brood — but they can have no cares;
And to strange gods they lift strange prayers.

They rave; they breathe out vaunting words
That can command the sacred Nine!
Then beauty flows, and strength upgirds;
Almost the mortal they resign,
And have themselves become divine!

To each his passion is more dear
Than any call of love or home ...
I hunger, after many a year,
For honey from that amber comb,
And fain would beat the far sea foam,

To search if there they yet abide
Who would not snap the sorcerous bond;
If, couched upon some green hill side,
They have their waking visions fond —
Or do but sleep at Trebizond.