Miraloma

There is a hill on Saanich And a wild grove thereby,— I never knew so fair a place This side of Arcady.

Blue and at peace about it, The waters of All Bay As magical as those whereon The isle of Sappho lay.

In spring the small wood lilies Go dancing on the breeze, Where the sun weaves its ancient spell Among the shadowing trees.

The minstrel air recaptures The haunting melody Of sunlit groves and lyric days By the Sicilian sea,

Where one might find at evening Pan's hoofprint on the shore, Or traces where a fleeing nymph Had passed an hour before;

Where life had time to tarry Through golden hours all still Under the green arbutus shade With Dawn or Daffodil—

Hearing the songs of Flaccus With his Falernian wine, Or Virgil's stately questioning, So human, so divine.

O beauties of old Hellas And songs of yesteryear, Were ever in your Golden Age Such golden hours as here,—

Today, in Miraloma, The welcome of a friend, By peaceful waters of the West, At Far Horizons' end!