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Between the shore and the distant sky-lands,
Where a ship's dim shape etched on space,
There lies this cluster of lovely islands,
Like laughing mermaids grouped in grace.


I look out over the waves and wonder,
Are they not sirens who dwell in the sea?
When the tide runs high they dip down under,
Like mirthful bathers who sport in glee.


When the tide runs low they lift their shoulders
Above the billows and gayly spread
Their soft green garments along the boulders
Of grim gray granite that form their bed.


Close by the group, in sheltered places,
Many a ship at anchor lies,
And drinks the charm of their smiling faces,
As lovers drink smiles from maidens' eyes.


But true to the harsh and stern old ocean,
As maids in a harem are true to one,
They give him all of their hearts' devotion,
Though wooed forever by moon and sun.


A ship sails on that has bravely waded
Through foaming billows to sue in vain;
A whip-poor-will flies that has serenaded
And sung unanswered his plaintive strain.


In the sea's great arms I see them lying,
Bright and beaming and fond and fair,
While the jealous July day is dying
In a crimson fury of mad despair.


The desolate moon drifts slowly over,
And covers its face with the lace of a cloud,
While the sea, like a glad triumphant lover,
Clasps close his islands and laughs aloud.