| Behold that great Plotinus swim, |
| Buffeted by such seas; |
| Bland Rhadamanthus beckons him, |
| But the Golden Race looks dim, |
| Salt blood blocks his eyes. |
| Scattered on the level grass |
| Or winding through the grove |
| Plato there and Minos pass, |
| There stately Pythagoras |
| And all the choir of Love. |
| August 19, 1931 |