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All the islands have run away From the land which is their mother; Out where the lighthouse guards the bay They race with one another. Rocky or wooded, humped and small, Edged whitely round with spray, What should we do if the islands all Ran back to land some day? How would the ships know where to steer? Where would the sea-gulls fly? How flat the sea would look; and queer, How lonely under the sky! |