THE ENVIABLE ISLES

By Herman Melville

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, instills —

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, strewn in flocks, what cheek-flushed myriads lie

Dimpling in dream — unconscious slumberers mere,

While billows endless round the beaches die.