Or swelling round me is the boundless sea;
Or else the widening waste of sand that quivers
In shining stretches, shuts the world from me--
Or seems to shut it, while I would that what it seems might be.

O day and night! O day and night! this mountain island,
This saintly shrine, this fort--I scarce know what 'tis yet--
This sand, or sea-girt, rocky, town-clad, church-crown'd highland,
This dull and rugged gem in golden deserts set,
Has some delicious, unknown charm to hold me,
To draw me to itself and keep me here;
The old grey walls, it seems, with joy enfold me--
Or is it I that make the dead stones dear,
And send the throbbing summer in my blood thro' all things near?

O day and night! O day and night! where else do flowers
Open their velvet lids like these to greet the light?
Or raise such sun-kissed lips aglow to meet cool showers?
Or cast more subtle scents abroad upon the night?
These trees and trailing weeds that climb the cliff-side steep,
The dusky pine trees, draped with wreaths of vine,
Make bowers where love might lie and list the sea-voice deep,
And drink the perfumed air, the light, like wine,
Which threads intoxication through these hot, glad veins of mine.

O day and night! O day and night! I sought this haven,
From place and power, and wealth I flew in search of rest;
They forced and bound me to a hard, detested craven,
Who mocked my loathing with his head upon my breast.
With deathless love I moaned for my young lover;