Page:Thirty poems (IA thirtypoems00bryarich).pdf/188

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POEMS.
 Yet, as he longer pondered this seemed best.He rose and sought the wood, and found it nearThe water, on a height, o'erlooking farThe region round. Between two shrubs, that sprungBoth from one spot, he entered, olive trees,One wild, one fruitful. The damp-blowing windNe'er pierced their covert; never blazing sunDarted his beams within, nor pelting showerBeat through, so closely intertwined they grew.Here entering, Ulysses heaped a bedOf leaves with his own hands; he made it broadAnd high, for thick the leaves had fallen around.Two men and three, in that abundant store,Might bide the winter storm, though keen the cold.Ulysses, the great sufferer, on his couch
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