That lone song of the surges, so mournful and drear.
Yet tell him our own fairy isle of the sea
Is still dear in its desolate beauty to me,
Though a hollow wind sighs through the echoing bowers,
Where I wander alone through an Eden of flowers;
Though the wing of the tempest o’ershadows the wold,
Where the asphodel meadows once blossomed in gold,
And the silence and chill of the sepulchre sleep
On its dream-haunted woodlands that border the deep.
And say, though the night-wind blew cold, and the gloom