_From 'Rammon.'_ <br /> <br />Through storms you reach them and from <br />storms are free. <br />Afar descried, the foremost drear in hue, <br />But, nearer, green; and, on the marge, the sea <br />Makes thunder low and mist of rainbowed <br />dew. <br /> <br />But, inland, where the sleep that folds the hills <br />A dreamier sleep, the trance of God, instills-- <br />On uplands hazed, in wandering airs <br />aswoon, <br />Slow-swaying palms salute love's cypress tree <br />Adown in vale where pebbly runlets croon <br />A song to lull all sorrow and all glee. <br /> <br />Sweet-fern and moss in many a glade are here. <br />Where, strewn in flocks, what cheek-flushed <br />myriads lie <br />Dimpling in dream--unconscious slumberers <br />mere, <br />While billows endless round the beaches die.<br /><br />Herman Melville<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-enviable-isles/
