Her hills and vales are dimmer
Than sunset's shadowy shimmer;
Thin mists, that curl, of poppy and pearl,
Above her bowers glimmer;
And, silvered o'er with sails of faery galleys,
Far off the sea gleams, glimpsed through fountained valleys.
The moon floats never higher
Than one white peak of fire;
And in its beams pale Beauty dreams,
And Music tunes her lyre;
And, Siren-like, beside the moonlit waters,
Fair Fancy sits singing with Memory's daughters.
A cloud, above and under
The ocean, white with wonder,
Looms, starry steep; and, opening deep,
Grows gold with silent thunder;
Revealing far within, immeasurable,
Lost Avalons of old Romance and Fable.
Ah! could my spirit shatter
These bonds of flesh and matter,
And, at a word, mount like a bird
To her through mists that scatter;
And, raimented in love and inspiration,
Look down on Earth from that exalted station:
No mortal might inveigle
My soul, that, like an eagle,
Would soar and soar from shore to shore
Of her, the rare and regal;
And by her love made all a lyric rapture,
A wild desire, wing far beyond all capture.