The murmur of the land recedes, The land of grief that aches and needs; We only as we fall and rise Drink deep the splendour of the skies.
O far blue heaven above our head, O near green sea about us spread, What joy so full, since time began, Could earth, our mother, give to man?
Your bright face through the water peers And laughs. “What need have men for tears?” We say. The land is far and dim, The world is summer’s, and we swim.
Your bright face peers and laughs. The sweet Same joy fulfils us, hands and feet: The same sea’s salt wet lips kiss ours: We feel the same enraptured hours.
Out yonder! where our distant home Beckons us from the crests of foam! Out yonder through the roller’s mirth! What part was ever ours with earth?
Your white limbs flash, your red lips gleam: Love seems life’s best and holiest dream; Nought comes between us here, and I Could wish not otherwise to die.
With sea beneath us, heaven above, Life holds but laughter, joy, and love; No trammels bind us now, and we Are freer than the birds are free.
Your face seems sweeter here; your hair, Wet from the sea’s salt lips, more fair; Your limbs that move and gleam and shine, Hellenic, pagan, half divine.
If I should catch you now, make fast Your hands with mine, about you cast My limbs, and through the untroubled waves Draw you down to the sea’s deep graves!
Ah, sweet! God’s gift is good enough, God’s gift of freedom, life, and love-- Though but for this brief hour are we Alone upon the eternal sea.
If Michael, leader of God’s host, When Heaven and Hell are met, Looked down on you from Heaven’s door-post, He would his deeds forget.
Brooding no more upon God’s wars In his Divine homestead, He would go weave out of the stars A chaplet for your head;
And all folk seeing him bow down, And white stars tell your praise, Would come at last to God’s great town, Led on by gentle ways;
And God would bid his warfare cease, Saying all things were well, And softly make a rosy peace, A peace of Heaven and Hell.
Though the roving bee as lightly Sip the sweets of thyme and clover, Though the moon of May as whitely Silver all the greensward over, Yet, beneath the trysting tree, That hath been which shall not be!
Drip the vials ne’er so sweetly With the honey-dew of pleasure, Trip the dancers ne’er so featly Through the old remembered measure, Yet, the lighted lanthorn round, What is lost shall not be found!