A land that seemed to be in a holy, happy dream, a sea
that changed all the while from olivine to emerald, from
emerald to sapphire, from sapphire to amethyst, that
washed in white foam at the bases of the firm, grey rocks,
and about the huge crimson bastions that hid the western
bays and inlets of the waters; to this land I came, and to
hollows that were purple and odorous with wild thyme,
wonderful with many tiny, exquisite flowers. There was
benediction in centaury, pardon in eye-bright, joy in
lady’s slipper; and so the weary eyes were refreshed,
looking now at the little flowers and the happy bees about
them, now on the magic mirror of the deep, changing from
marvel to marvel with the passing of the great white
clouds, with the brightening of the sun. And the ears,
torn with jangle and racket and idle, empty noise, were
soothed and comforted by the ineffable, unutterable,
unceasing murmur, as the tides swam to and fro, uttering
mighty, hollow voices in the caverns of the rocks.