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Rh Soon shall the flail o' the wind, the threshing rains Winnow the wet woods with the vans of storm.

Already Autumn, I must seek my ship And steer a far course to my Island Home, The lost Atlantis.

Not Cythera, then?

Not to the old Cythera, ruin'd now By generations of barbaric men, An arid rock where all the groves are dead, The Lover's roses as the Sybil's bay And Poet's laurel, only now remain For wine and honey spill'd and spoil'd and sped, Cliffs amber yellow like dun honeycomb