Against deep seas blue-black like mussel-shells
the Island arched it´s bluffs and stony scarps
which, wave-rocked, tolled in winter time like bells
or chimed to spring as sweet as irish harps

Above the fool´s crown of canary clouds
moulded by mighty winds to dizzy heighth
leaned to the isle like press of sail overbowed
and sunshine pierced the eye with swords of light

Flower in the dust ...

This have we chosen far from friends and home
this space of barren rock and crimson heath
with cliffs of quaking honeycomb
and the tides of death in the galleries beneath

Flower in the dust ...