He speaks, resting.

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 where tulips blow.

White before us flames one pointed Star; and Day hath Night anointed King; from out her azure ewer Pouring starry fire, truer Than true 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. Down the dusk burns golden-red; Embers are the stars o'erhead.

At my soul some Protean elf is: You‘ re Simaetha, I am Delphis; You are Sappho and her Phaon — I. We love. There lies a ray on All the dark AEolian seas ‘ Round the violet Lesbian leas.

On we drift. He loves you. Nearer Looms our island. Rosier, clearer The Leucadian cliff we follow, Where the temple of Apollo Lifts a pale and pillared fire — Strike, oh, strike the Lydian lyre; Out of Hellas blows the breeze Singing to the Sapphic seas.