Down to their knees in cloths of white and gold, Stars clad in light of stars, the sisters four Whom men call the Hesperides, Nymphs of the West, among the blossomed limes, Sing each to each the names of dawn and dusk, And guard the apples whose scarce golden seeds Could grow to be new worlds without Olympus-gods. Most of our torture is for knowledge of the draught That we are meant to drink but is for us too strong; How by these little coracles that make our lives Through massive weirds of marble seas Should we make passage?