Out beyond the sunset, could I but find the way, Is a sleepy blue laguna which widens to a bay, And there’s the Blessed-City – so the sailors say – The It is built of fair marble – white – without a stain, And in the cool twilight when the sea-winds wane, The bells chime faintly, like a soft, warm rain, In the Among the green palm-trees where the fire-flies shine, Are the white tavern tables where the gallants dine. Singing slow Spanish songs like old mulled wine, In the Oh, I’ll be shipping sunset-wards and westward-ho Through the green toppling combers a-shattering into snow, Till I come to quiet moorings and a watch below, In the |
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