Insomnia. Homer. Taut canvas. Half the catalogue of ships is mine: that flight of cranes, long stretched-out line, that once rose, out of Hellas. To an alien land, like a phalanx of cranes ? Foam of the gods on the heads of kings ? Where do you sail? What would the things of Troy, be to you, Achaeans, without Helen? The sea, or Homer ? all moves by love?s glow. Which should I hear? Now Homer is silent, and the Black Sea thundering its oratory, turbulent, and, surging, roars against my pillow.