I know that there are slumbrous woods beyond On islands of white marges, where the tide Floods upward, blue as a kingfisher's wing,
And sails, like wishes of a reverie,
Shine to the wind that fills them, far inland.
I know that there are harbours in the hills Amid those verdurous, smooth bosom-folds,
Found by the idle sunbeams for their sleep.
But it contents me to see nothing more Than liquid blue of the invisible wind Flowing and glowing through the tamarisk That waves upon this wild deserted bank;
And I lie warm on the short, sandy turf Lulled in bright noise of the returning sea.
O plumy Tamarisk, tossing your green hair In the wind's radient stream, as if I had lent Your fibres all my senses of delight,
Why does it so enchant me to have nothing,
And drink long draughts of sky where nothing is,
And tremble to the glory of an hour That passes out of nothing into nothing?
