There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill:
For his country he sign'd, when at twilight
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill
But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion,
The unhappy exile, whom his fates confine To the bleak coast of some unfriendly isle, Cold, barren, desart, where no harvests smile, But thirst and hunger on the rocks repine; When, from some promontory's fearful brow, Sun after sun he hopeless se...
These hills are sandy
Trees are dwarfed here
Caw dismally in skies of an arid brilliance,
Complain in dusty pine-trees
My hands have not touched pleasure since your hands, —No, — nor my lips freed laughter since 'farewell',
And with the day, distance again
Voiceless between us, as an uncoiled shell
Yet, love endures, though starving and alone
Here Pushkin's endless exile has begun,
And Lermontov's exile turned out fatal,
The mountain grass has a smell so sweet and gentle,
And only once I managed to discern,