Herman Melville

The Enviable Isles

     From "Rammon."

     Through storms you reach them and from
         storms are free.
       Afar descried, the foremost drear in hue,
     But, nearer, green; and, on the marge, the sea
       Makes thunder low and mist of rainbowed
         dew.

     But, inland, where the sleep that folds the hills
     A dreamier sleep, the trance of God, instills—
       On uplands hazed, in wandering airs
         aswoon,
     Slow-swaying palms salute love's cypress tree
       Adown in vale where pebbly runlets croon
     A song to lull all sorrow and all glee.

     Sweet-fern and moss in many a glade are here.
       Where, strewn in flocks, what cheek-flushed
         myriads lie
     Dimpling in dream—unconscious slumberers
         mere,
       While billows endless round the beaches die.