Sea-Distances

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.