Breadths of tropic shade, and palms in cluster, knots of Paradise.
Never comes the trader, never floats an European flag.
Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings the trailer from the crag;
Droops the heavy-blossomed bower, hangs the heavy fruited tree—
Summer isles of Eden lying in the dark-purple spheres of sea.
There, methinks, would be enjoyment more than in this march of mind.
In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts that shake mankind.
There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have scope and breathing space:
I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race.
Iron-jointed, supple-sinewed, they shall dive and they shall run.