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124 My helpless boat, rocked in the wind, obeys no steadfast hand. Her swinging helm and lashing sheet have lost my weak command; The shrieking sea-birds seek the sheltering shore, The writhing waves leap upward, and their hoar Strong hands tear at the timbers of my shuddering craft. I cry in vain, the Fates have seen and laughed. Time and the world have stormed my summer sea— I ate my fruit, the serpent held the tree.