Hyperion, or the Hermit in Greece

I love this Greece all over. It bears the colour of my heart. Wherever you look a joy lies buried.

And yet around you is so much loveliness and grandeur too.

On the headland I’ve built me a hut of mastic twigs, and round about it planted moss and trees and thyme and all manner of shrubs.

There I spend my sweetest hours, there I sit whole evenings and gaze across to Attica, until at last my heart begins to race; then I take my tackle, go down to the bay and catch some fish.

Or up there on my promontory I read about the glorious ancient sea battle that once in wild and wisely managed turmoil spent its rage at Salamis, and take my pleasure in the spirit that could steer and tame the furious chaos of friend and foe, like a rider his steed, and feel deep shame at my own career as warrior.

Or I look out upon the sea and ponder my life, its rising and sinking, its bliss and its grief, and my past often sounds to me like a lyre when the master runs through all the tones, throwing together discord and harmony in hidden order.

It’s thrice beautiful up here today. Two gentle days of rain have cooled the air and the life-weary earth.

The ground has grown greener, the field has unfolded. Endless stands the golden wheat, mingled with joyful cornflowers, and light and bright a thousand hopeful crowns rise from the depths of the grove. Gently and grandly each line in the distance weaves through the space; like

steps the mountains climb up to the sun, one after another in ceaseless procession. All heaven is limpid. The white light only softly suffuses the aether, and like a silver cloudlet the bashful moon goes floating by in the brightness of day.