In front, the sprinkled skerries pierced the wave;
Between then, slowly glided in and out
The tawny sails, while houses low and red
Hailed their return or sent them fearless forth.
‘This is thy Norway, Lars; it looks like thee,’
Said Ruth: ‘it has a forehead firm and bold:
It sets its foot below the reach of storms,
Yet hides, methinks, in each retiring vale,
Delight in toil, contentment, love, and peace.’”
“‘To starboard, yonder lies the isle