XVIII) The Isle of Macnannan Mac Lir
The Irish say, that in the western sea
Is set an Island deep embowered in trees
Of deathless verdure, where the morning breeze
Blows on through noon to eve unceasingly;
Yet such that island’s magic property,
No mariner its pine-tipt summit sees
Save whom the Ocean please
To take their chorus. Only he
Steers thitherward; no feet of his alight
On that fantastic shore; he only feels
The ravishment of that immortal day.
For they that are denied this gift of sight
Naught see but tumbling waves; their lonely keels
Plough on and on a barren waste for aye.