It is a little isle amid bleak seas—An isolate realm of garden, circled roundBy importunity of stress and sound,Devoid of empery to master these.At most, the memory of its streams and bees,Borne to the toiling mariner outward-bound,Recalls his soul to that delightful ground;But serves no beacon toward his destinies.
It is a refuge from the stormy days,Breathing the peace of a remoter worldWhere beauty, like the musing dusk of even,Enfolds the spirit in its silver haze;While far away, with glittering banners furled,The west lights fade, and stars come out in heaven.
It is a sea-gate, trembling with the blastOf powers that from the infinite sea-plain roll,A whelming tide. Upon the waiting soulAs on a fronting rock, thunders the vastGroundswell; its spray bursts heavenward, and drives pastIn fume and sound articulate of the wholeOf ocean's heart, else voiceless; on the shoalSilent; upon the headland clear at last.