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114
THE GOLDEN ISLES.
Sad would the salt waves be,
And cold the singing sea,
And dark the gulfs that echo to the seven-stringed lyre,
If things were what they seem,
If life had no fair dream,
No mirage made to tip the dull sea-line with fire.
And cold the singing sea,
And dark the gulfs that echo to the seven-stringed lyre,
If things were what they seem,
If life had no fair dream,
No mirage made to tip the dull sea-line with fire.
Then Sleep would have no light,
And Death no voice or sight,
Their sister Sorrow, too, would be as blind as they,
And in this world of doubt
Our souls would roam about,
And find no song to sing and no word good to say.
And Death no voice or sight,
Their sister Sorrow, too, would be as blind as they,
And in this world of doubt
Our souls would roam about,
And find no song to sing and no word good to say.
115
Or else, in cloud and gloom
The soul would read her doom,
And sing a rune obscure above a murky sea,
Dark phrases that would wrong
The crystal fount of song,
For limpid as a pearl the poet's thought should be.
The soul would read her doom,
And sing a rune obscure above a murky sea,
Dark phrases that would wrong
The crystal fount of song,
For limpid as a pearl the poet's thought should be.
Not in the storm and rain,
Not pale with grief and pain,
But red with sunlit pulse and breathing health and hope,
The bard in garments gay
Should tread the sacred way
That leads him towards his god high up the laurelled slope.
Not pale with grief and pain,
But red with sunlit pulse and breathing health and hope,
The bard in garments gay
Should tread the sacred way
That leads him towards his god high up the laurelled slope.
But on the shores of time,
Hearkening the breakers' chime
Falling by night and day along our human sand,
The poet sits and sees,
Borne on the morning breeze,
The phantom islands float a furlong from the land.
Hearkening the breakers' chime
Falling by night and day along our human sand,
The poet sits and sees,
Borne on the morning breeze,
The phantom islands float a furlong from the land.
116
The reverend forms they bear
Of islands famed and fair,
On whose keen rocks, of old, heroic fleets have struck,
Whose marble dells have seen
In garments pale and green
The nymphs and gods go by to bring the shepherds luck.
Of islands famed and fair,
On whose keen rocks, of old, heroic fleets have struck,
Whose marble dells have seen
In garments pale and green
The nymphs and gods go by to bring the shepherds luck.
White are their crags, and blue
Ravines divide them through,
And like a violet shell their cliffs recede from shore;
Between their fretted capes
Fresh isles in lovely shapes
Die on the horizon pale, and lapse in liquid light.
Ravines divide them through,
And like a violet shell their cliffs recede from shore;
Between their fretted capes
Fresh isles in lovely shapes
Die on the horizon pale, and lapse in liquid light.
Past that dim straitened shore,
The Argive mother bore
The boy she brought to Zeus, pledge of the golden fee;
Here Delos, like a gem,
Still feels Latona's hem,
A lordlier Naxos crowns a purpler arc of sea.
The Argive mother bore
The boy she brought to Zeus, pledge of the golden fee;
Here Delos, like a gem,
Still feels Latona's hem,
A lordlier Naxos crowns a purpler arc of sea.
117
There mines of Parian lie
Hid from the sun's clear eye,
And waiting still the lamp, the hammer, and the axe
And he who, pensive, sees
These nobler Cyclades
Forgets the ills of life, and nothing mortal lacks.
Hid from the sun's clear eye,
And waiting still the lamp, the hammer, and the axe
And he who, pensive, sees
These nobler Cyclades
Forgets the ills of life, and nothing mortal lacks.
But many an one, in vain,
Puts out across the main,
And thinks to leap on land and tread that magic shore;
He comes, for all his toil,
No nearer to their soil,
The isles are floating on, a furlong still before.
Puts out across the main,
And thinks to leap on land and tread that magic shore;
He comes, for all his toil,
No nearer to their soil,
The isles are floating on, a furlong still before.
So he contends, until
The storm wind, harsh and chill,
Beats on his sail, and blots the heaven with cloud and flame,
And well indeed he fares,
After a world of cares,
Returning, if he reach the harbour whence he came.
The storm wind, harsh and chill,
Beats on his sail, and blots the heaven with cloud and flame,
And well indeed he fares,
After a world of cares,
Returning, if he reach the harbour whence he came.
118
The poet sits and smiles,
He knows the golden isles,
He never hopes to win their cliffs, their marble mines,
Reefs where their green sea raves,
The coldness of their caves,
Their felspars full of light, their rosy corallines.
He knows the golden isles,
He never hopes to win their cliffs, their marble mines,
Reefs where their green sea raves,
The coldness of their caves,
Their felspars full of light, their rosy corallines.
All these he oft has sought,
Led by his travelling thought,
Their glorious distance hides no inward charm from him;
He would not have their day
To common light decay,
He loves their mystery best, and bids their shapes be dim.
Led by his travelling thought,
Their glorious distance hides no inward charm from him;
He would not have their day
To common light decay,
He loves their mystery best, and bids their shapes be dim.
They solace all his pains,
They animate his strains,
Within their radiant glow he soon forgets the world;
They bathe his torrid noons
In the soft light of moons,
They leave his lingering evenings tenderly empearled.
They animate his strains,
Within their radiant glow he soon forgets the world;
They bathe his torrid noons
In the soft light of moons,
They leave his lingering evenings tenderly empearled.
119
As one who walks all day
Along a dusty way,
May turn aside to plunge in some sequestered pool,
And so may straight forget
His weariness and fret,
So seeks the poet's heart those islands blue and cool.
Along a dusty way,
May turn aside to plunge in some sequestered pool,
And so may straight forget
His weariness and fret,
So seeks the poet's heart those islands blue and cool.
Content to know them there,
Hung in the shining air,
He trims no foolish sail to win the hopeless coast,
His vision is enough
To feed his soul with love,
And he who grasps too much may even himself be lost.
Hung in the shining air,
He trims no foolish sail to win the hopeless coast,
His vision is enough
To feed his soul with love,
And he who grasps too much may even himself be lost.
He knows that, if he waits,
One day the well-worn gates
Of life will ope and send him westward o'er the wave;
Then will he reach ere night
The isles of his delight,
But they must float until they anchor in the grave.
One day the well-worn gates
Of life will ope and send him westward o'er the wave;
Then will he reach ere night
The isles of his delight,
But they must float until they anchor in the grave.
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