A Sonnet-Ode to Ovid on Departing from Exile
It is known that you were captive on your way,
Some say, a captive, strayed to your exile.
And held you were, by the seaside sway
Of other fates all the while.
Did you chance to see, recalled from your wilting while
There, above the swirling cape, a placid hill
That did not refuse a timely archaic style?
And whither these fruits of a retiring will?
Glancing back at bygone thoughts of home abroad
May yet inspire a prayer to some littoral muse,
Risen whence scuttled hands have clawed,
Hidden from less troubled views.
Yet what have they now who dine on figs in Rome,
Who find themselves yet in search of home?