SINK, lovely day, and fold thy wings of gold Around the islands of the western seas, The far-off, beautiful Hesperides; For there the waves, by temperate winds controlled, Sing to the shores forever. Sink, and fold Thy wings above their golden-fruited trees, And quiet gardens, and the sinless ease Of them that grow no longer weak or old. They that dwell there have borne life's little pain; They were as we are, but shall weep no more. Fly, lovely day, and drop below the main, Where waits for me a welcome at the door; I follow when the Boatman comes again; Soon shall I hear his keel grate on the shore. |