Chapter Eight

And when a-down the bare brown lanes Pattered the swift, white feet of Spring, I saw the velvet-golden flash That marked the yellow-hammer’s wing A-curve on high; and later heard The robin, and the blue-bird sing.

Far seaward on unnumbered isles Mid scent of spice and drowsy balm, The lotos-eating Islanders Lay soothed to sleep by utter calm; Low at their feet the pulsing tides And o’er their heads the tufted palm.