Far in the West lies sleeping
Brandan's Isle in the sea;
The wind and the waves together
Moan round it ceaselessly.

Only on clear calm evenings,
When the sun is low in the West,
You can see on the far horizon
Saint Brandan's Isle of the Blest.

The winds keep guard there ever,
Watching, with folded wings,
To drive from the dreaming islet
All touch of earthly things.

And if any vessel come there,
The winds blow out from the shore,
And at morn, when the wind abateth,
The Isle is seen no more.

In the Isle of unending summer,
Under the stainless blue,
Lie in their patient slumber,
The Saint and his faithful few.

They sleep till the last loud trumpet
Shall break their age-long rest,
And the sea shall pass, and the sunset,
And Brandan's Isle the Blest.