TELL me not of Grecian isles And a charm that's olden, Brooding on the turquoise blue That the Argo's oar-banks knew, Where a sun-steeped ease beguiles, Far away, and golden! There's a Western isle I know, Where the last land merges In the grey and outer seas, Southward from the Hebrides, And through old sea-caverns go Old Atlantic dirges! Grey it is, and very still In the August weather; Grey the basking seals that flock On their jaggéd lift of rock; Starkly heaves a waste of hill Grey, untouched of heather! Grey streams show, by cliff and hag, Pools, and runs that riot, There the great grey sea-trout rise Splashing silver at your flies, There the grey crow from the crag Croaks across the quiet! That's the place where I would be, Where the winds blow purely; For I hear, by Fancy blest, All the Fairies of the West Sound their silver pipes for me— Horns of Elfland surely! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE WANDERER: 2. IN FRANCE: THE PORTRAIT by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON THE TRAGEDY OF VALENTINIAN: SPRING by JOHN FLETCHER EROTION by ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE HINC LACHRIMAE; OR THE AUTHOR TO AURORA: 32 by WILLIAM BOSWORTH ON THE DEATH OF SMET-SMET, THE HIPPOTAMUS-GODDESS by RUPERT BROOKE |