'It is an isle under Ionian skies,

Beautiful as a wreck of paradise,

The light clear element which the isle wears

Is heavy with the scent of lemon flowers,

Which floats like mist laden with unseen showers;

And falls upon the eyelids like faint sleep,

And from the moss violets and jonquils peep,

And dart their arrowy odour through the brain

Till you might faint with that delicious pain.

And every motion, odour, beam, and tone,

With that deep music is in unison

Which is a soul within the soul :

The winged storms, chanting their thunder psalm

To other lands, leave azure chasms of calm

Over this isle, or weep themselves in dew,

From which its fields and woods ever renew

Their green and golden immortality.

And from the sea their rise, and from the sky

There fall, clear exhalations, soft and bright,

Veil after veil, each hiding some delight;

Which sun or moon or zephyr draw aside.

Till the isle's beauty like a naked bride

Glowing at once with love and loveliness,

Blushes and trembles at its own excess.

But the Chief marvel of the wilderness