In foam of rose the long waves broke below
The lemon trees, and gold and amethyst
The inland mountains gleamed.
It was the land we dreamed of long ago;
But now we looked on it we somewhere missed
The light of which we dreamed.
Beside the oleander and the clove,
And alien midst many a flaming plant
Of gold and cinnabar,
Beyond the garden stood a black-green grove
Of pine-trees, set by some old emigrant
Who knew the polar star.
The shadows deepened in that land unknown;
And presently great stars appeared above
In unfamiliar deeps.
The wind’s voice and the water’s undertone
Were soft as a forgotten touch of love
That comes to one who sleeps.
The night began the garden scents to steal;
The sea grew silver in the rising moon,
And violet the sky.
We looked on splendour that we did not feel;
Strange charms, to which our souls were not in tune,
Touched us and drifted by.
Then the wind rose and from the pines drew forth
Ancestral whispers of their land of birth,--
Dark heath and stormy shore;
And all the wistful magic of the north
And all the old enchantment of the earth
Enfolded us once more.
The north interpreted the south: dreams dreamed
In childhood gave reality its soul,
And filled the earth again
With vanished wonder; while far off I seemed
To hear wild seas beyond a pine-wood roll
At dusk in wind and rain.