Though Ætna crumble and the dark seas rise
Sowing the uplands with their sterile brine,
Still shall the soul descry with wistful eyes
Sicilian headlands bright with flower and fruit;
Still shall she hear, though all earth’s lips be mute,
Sicilian music in the morning skies.
Yea, deep within the heart of man it lies,
This visioned island bright with old romance,
A race inheritance
Of rest and joy and faith in things divine,