Vii

He speaks, letting the boat drift:

Here the shores are irised; grasses Clump the water gray, that glasses Broken wood and deepened distance. Far the musical persistence Of a field-lark lingers low In the west’s rich tulip-glow.

White before us flames one pointed Star; and Day hath Night anointed King; from out her azure ewer Pouring starry fire, truer Than pure gold. Star-crowned he stands With the starlight in his hands.

Will the moon bleach through the ragged Tree-tops ere we reach yon jagged Rock that rises gradually, Pharos of our homeward valley?-- All the west is smouldering red; Embers are the stars o’erhead.

At my soul some Protean elf is: You ’re Simætha; I am Delphis, You are Sappho and your Phaon, I.--We love.--There lies our way, on,-- Let us say,--Æolian seas, To the violet Lesbian leas.

On we drift. I love you. Nearer Looms our Island. Rosier, clearer, The Leucadian cliff we follow, Where the temple of Apollo Shines--a pale and pillared fire.... Strike, oh, strike the Lydian lyre!-- Out of Hellas blows the breeze Singing to the Sapphic seas.