Or curling passion, or a rhythm of rhyme,
Or indolent ripple sighing at the keel—
Beyond us, though our fretted longings reel,
The lulled horizon sleeps, the still hours climb—
So toss our weary ships, till from afar
Our visioned island rises suddenly,
Where palaces like cloudy colours are,
With scented gardens terraced to the sea,
The silver steps to our appointed star
Where gleam the spires that pierce eternity.