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.