When those old Greeks, fordone with toil of seas,
        And sorrow of the land, and endless wrong,
        Hoped against hope for quiet rest among
Some golden isle of the Hesperides,
They had not seen this tranquil flood, nor these
        Calm-girt and azure-circled isles of song
        And sun and flower, where all things tender
And earth and air invite perpetual ease—

Or, sure, some singer would have smote his lyre,
    And told men tired with wandering, of a lake
        In whose calm ripple stars do larger grow,
        And clouds gain glory, where like emeralds glow
    Green islands at the noon, where mornings break
Up from the depths in golden fleece of fire.

(Sonnets in Switzerland and Italy, p. 52)