Once upon Iceland’s solitary strand
A poet wandered with his book and pen ,
Seeking some final word, some sweet Amen,
Wherewith to close the volume in his hand.
The billows rolled and plunged upon the sand,
The circling sea-gulls swept beyond his ken,
And from the parting cloud-rack now and then
Flashed the red sunset over sea and land
Then by the billows at his feet was tossed
A broken oar; and carved thereon he read:
“Oft was I weary, when I toiled at thee-”
And like a man, who findeth what was lost,
He wrote the words, then lifted up his head,
And flung his useless pen into the sea.