 | In Russet & Silver |  |
IV
Vanish'd? ay, that's still the trouble,Tusitala!
Though your tropic isle rejoices,
'Tis to us an Isle of Voices
Hollow like the elfin double
Cry of disembodied echoes,
Or an owlet's wicked laughter,
Or the cold and hornèd gecko's
Croaking from a ruined rafter,—
Voices these of things existing,
Yet incessantly resisting
Eyes and hands that follow after;
You are circled, as by magic,
In a surf-built palmy bubble,
Tusitala;
Fate hath chosen, but the choice is
Half delectable, half tragic,
xiii
And we greet you back, enchanted,
But reply's no sooner granted,
Than the rifted cloud-land closes.
| In Russet & Silver | |