Now, after years serving demonic excess,
Exalting those whose god-passions send them mad,
I am stranded on a simpler shore, much less
Sumptuous,—a land permanently sad,

Bearing a sombre harvest—an old island,
With cactus and asphodel and olive on
The rock itself. This oddly, is my land.
Here a moderate joy yellows the sky each dawn.

We toil—here toil has lost its hectic haste.
The outrageous wrongs men do lessen, diminish.
We are frugal, we share, we despise waste.
The work I have is good. It is not mine to finish.