And all the winds wandering along the shore
Undulate with the undulating tide: 
There are thick woods where sylvan forms abide; 435
And many a fountain, rivulet, and pond,
As clear as elemental diamond,
Or serene morning air; and far beyond,
The mossy tracks made by the goats and deer
(Which the rough shepherd treads but once a year) 440
Pierce into glades, caverns, and bowers, and halls
Built round with ivy, which the waterfalls
Illumining, with sound that never fails
Accompany the noonday nightingales;
And all the place is peopled with sweet airs; 445
The light clear element which the isle wears
Is heavy with the scent of lemon-flowers,
Which floats like mist laden with unseen showers. 
And falls upon the eyelids like faint sleep;
And from the moss violets and jonquils peep, 450
And dart their arrowy odour through the brain
Till you might faint with that delicious pain. 
And every motion, odour, beam and tone,
With that deep music is in unison: 
Which is a soul within the soul—­they seem 455
Like echoes of an antenatal dream.—­
It is an isle ’twixt Heaven, Air, Earth, and Sea,
Cradled, and hung in clear tranquillity;
Bright as that wandering Eden Lucifer,
Washed by the soft blue Oceans of young air. 460
It is a favoured place.  Famine or Blight,
Pestilence, War and Earthquake, never light
Upon its mountain-peaks; blind vultures, they
Sail onward far upon their fatal way: 
The winged storms, chanting their thunder-psalm 465
To other lands, leave azure chasms of calm
Over this isle, or weep themselves in dew,
From which its fields and woods ever renew
Their green and golden immortality. 
And from the sea there rise, and from the sky 470
There fall, clear exhalations, soft and bright. 
Veil after veil, each hiding some delight,
Which Sun or Moon or zephyr draw aside,
Till the isle’s beauty, like a naked bride
Glowing at once with love and loveliness, 475
Blushes and trembles at its own excess: 
Yet, like a buried lamp, a Soul no less
Burns in the heart of this delicious isle,
An atom of th’ Eternal, whose own smile
Unfolds itself, and may be felt, not seen 480
O’er the gray rocks, blue waves, and forests green,
Filling their bare and void interstices.—­
But the chief marvel of the wilderness
Is a lone dwelling, built by whom or how
None of the rustic island-people know:  485
’Tis not a tower of strength, though with its height
It overtops the woods; but, for delight,
Some wise and tender Ocean-King, ere crime
Had been invented, in the world’s young prime,