Epigraph
“Rest we content if whispers from the stars
In wafting of the incalculable wind
Come blown at midnight through our prison-bars.”
The Magic Land
By woodland belt, by ocean bar,
The full south breeze our forehead fanned;
And, under many a yellow star,
We dropped into the Magic Land.
We heard, far-off, the siren’s song;
We caught the gleam of sea-maids’ hair;
The glimmering isles and rocks among
We moved through sparkling purple air.
Then Morning rose, and smote from far
Her elfin harps o’er land and sea;
And woodland belt, and ocean bar
To one sweet note sighed—“Italy!”
Owen Meredith.