ROSES OF IMEEO

THE sun is bright in other climes,
And bright the crystal waters flow.
The trees as gently woo the wind,
As sweetly rare the roses grow;
But ah, within our northern climes
They only bloom at fitful times.

Listless, I sit and watch the waves
As drowsily they ebb and flow,
Fresh from the coral groves and caves
About the Isle of Imeeo,
And wonder how I could exist
In sleet and snow, and northern mist.

All day the sun shines warm and bright,
Be it December, March, or June.
And damask roses court the sight
At dewy morn or drowsy noon.
For in no other land will grow
Such roses as on Imeeo.

Inland a league there sleeps a vale,
The mystic valley of Martair,
Where nut-brown maids weave lilies pale
And roses, in their dusky hair,
And fairy forms and starry eyes
Dance underneath cerulean skies.