At Last It Is!

Pomenotas sang, in early Greece,
Of the rise of man and the gods decrease.
He sang alone and no one heard,
But one, just one, caught his every word.

Ashaitha she, of the golden lyre;
Its strings were made of her hair of fire.
She swept her music sweet and rare
To the ears of he who was singing there.

And so by note and word well sprung
They met together, who were so young.
He praised her play, praised she his voice;
In new ideas did they rejoice.

Then, fearing naught but mind-closed men,
They made a boat in a wat’ry glen,
And rowed on out to the great-waved sea
To find an isle where they’d be free.

You’ve heard of Atlantis; yes,
That place of eternal happiness,
Where souls of great and good men go,
A city brave, where there’s no woe.

But now know this, for this is true,
There was really room for only two.

Pomenotas sang when he spied the isle;
Ashaitha played in exuberant style;
Word and tune, voice and lyre,
Eruptions made of heart’s desire!

A few green acres—than this, no more;
A few wild beasts, of birds, few more;
A hundred trees and one high hill,
And some rich soil for them to till.

A neglected isle, it was so small,
Yet big enough for—one, two—all!
And so, together, hand in hand,
Pom and Ash took in their land.

“At last, it is!” they sang for hours.
“At last, it is! No forcing powers!”

Then lay they down, safe and secure,
To rest and sleep, love and adore,
Now touched by mindless men no more,
Alone with earth and the great sea’s roar.

And years and years and years went by
Of work and song beneath the sky.
Some beasts they tamed, some left to stray;
Some birds, it seemed, sang more each day.
And all the while, Ash made tunes rare,
And what Pom sang, no man would dare.

Then as their lives began to end
They placed in wooden pipe, to send,
A message which read, “At last it is.”
Wet ink ran and men scanned, “Atlantis.”

The note went on, “Happy are we,
Who soon will sink beneath the sea.
We lived and loved for us alone;
We had no gods, no wars have known.
In reason’s light we joyed entire,
And now our voice and tune expire.
Feign not faith, seek real and true.
You knew us not, but we knew you.”

Then men took boats and searched the sea
For that grand isle where some lived free,
Imagined towers of splendid height,
And giants strolling in golden light;
Imagined kings in costly dress,
Where none did work for happiness,
And passed a silly isle by—
Just one poor dot upon the eye.

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