The antique land was past; the faery isles sunken.
Far beyond the Orient, the green deep’s waves flee,
And beyond those is the silent Heaven —
Yet where art thou, or shadows cast by thee?
The self-same wind, one thousand years ago, was here;
Facing these skies, as thou didst, I stand spellbound;
I love the Moon well, for thine eye oft beheld there;
I have been where thou hadst been — no thy steps found.
Where? O where? the remotest gap, full of rosy colour,
In vain I strive to pass thro’ riding o’er hill and dale.
Sleeping in thy turfed grave, knew me thou never,
Nor wilt mingle thy sense with my fingers pale.

I feed upon thine ancient tales as aliment mine,
And for thine once fragrant entity I pine.