But toward the south I turn my eager eyes—
Beyond its flushed horizon my heart lies.
The snow-clad isles of ice,
Launched by wild Boreas from a northern shore,
Journey the way my eyes
Turn with an envious longing evermore—
Smiling back to the sky
Its own pink blush, and, floating out of sight,
Bear south the softest dye
Of northern heavens, to fade in southern night:—