Round purple peaks It sails, and seeks Blue inlets and their crystal creeks, Where high rocks throw, Through deeps below, A duplicated golden glow. Far, vague, and dim, Here Ischia smiles And yonder, bluest of the isles, Her sapphire gates Beguiling to her bright estates.. "Who 'll care for me when I am dead and gone? Not many now-and, surely, soon, not one; And should I sing like an immortal Muse, "And song, if passable, is doomed to pass Common, though sweet as the new-scythed grass. Of human deeds and thoughts, Time bears no news, That, flying, he can lack, Else they would break his back. "Spirit of Beauty, breath of golden lyres, Perpetual tremble of immortal wires, "Doth not all struggle tell, upon its brow, Coquetting with thine eyes, "Go, pry the lintels of the pyramids, Lift the old kings' mysterious coffin lids: This dust was theirs, whose names these stones confuse, — Down in the bleak December bay Over the bay, and over the ship Neither the desert nor the sea On mother, maid, and child, may bring, |