O Carib Isle!
O Carib Isle!
The tarantula rattling at the lily’s foot . . .
O Carib Isle!
The tarantula rattling at the lily’s foot . . .
It is more onerous
than the rites of beauty
or housework, harder than love. . . .
We are the music-makers,
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers . . .
1.
God love you now, if no one else will ever, . . .
Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express . . .
Happy the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air, . . .
as if it were a scene made-up by the mind,
that is not mine, but is a made place,
. . .
Often rebuked, yet always back returning
To those first feelings that were born with me,
And leaving busy chase of wealth and learning . . .
Oh, Hope! thou soother sweet of human woes!
How shall I lure thee to my haunts forlorn!
For me wilt thou renew the withered rose, . . .
Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!
Long has it waved on high,
And many an eye has danced to see . . .