I dream of western waters, and of the Seven Isles,
And of mornings when they appear
Flowering out of the mist on a sea of smiles,
Warm and familiar and near.

Then O how changed! fugitive, faint, remote;
In another world than ours,
Vanishing apparitions, they seemed to float;
Shadows of shadowy powers.

Effaced, at last, as if they had never been!
Drowned in the empty bay.
On solitary water was nothing to be seen
But a sail, pale on the gray.

And I wonder, O Isles, reappearing and lost without sign
In the solitude of the seas,
Are the songs of the Immortals more divine
Or their magical silences?