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His native sea-washed isle Was bleak and bare. Far off, there seemed to smile An isle more fair. Blue as the smoke of Spring Its far hills rose, A delicate azure ring Crowned with faint snows. At dusk, a rose-red star Set free from wrong, It beaconed him afar, His whole life long. Not till old age drew nigh He voyaged there. He saw the colours die As he drew near. It towered above him, bleak And cold, death-cold. From peak to phantom peak A grey mist rolled. Then, under his arched hand, From that bare shore, Back, at his own dear land, He gazed, once more. Clothed with the tints he knew, He saw it smile,— Opal, and rose and blue, His native isle. |