but above all, his lips call on his wife, Alcyone; he thinks again, again of her—his memories are like an eddy; he implores the waves to bear his body to a shore where he may yet be seen by his Alcyone and she, with love, may bury his dead body. And as he swims, each time the surge permits his mouth to open, she is on his lips: the name—“Alcyone, Alcyone”— of one so distant.
