The Enviable Isles

Through storms you reach them and from storms are free.   Afar descried, the foremost drear in hue, But, nearer, green; and, on the marge, the sea   Makes thunder low and mist of rainbowed dew. But, inland,—where the sleep that folds the hills A dreamier sleep, the trance of God, instils,—   On uplands hazed, in wandering airs aswoon, Slow-swaying palms salute love’s cypress tree   Adown in vale where pebbly runlets croon A song to lull all sorrow and all glee. Sweet-fern and moss in many a glade are here,   Where, strown in flocks, what cheek-flushed myriads lie Dimpling in dream, unconscious slumberers mere,   While billows endless round the beaches die.