Islands

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!