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When with closed eyes in autumn's eves of gold / I breathe the burning odours of your breast, / Before my eyes the hills of happy rest / Bathed in the sun's monotonous fires, unfold.
Islands of Lethe where exotic boughs / Bend with their burden of strange fruit bowed down. / Where men are upright, maids have never grown / Unkind, but bear a light upon their brows.
Led by that perfume to these lands of ease, / I see a port where many ships have flown / With sails outwearied of the wandering seas;
While the faint odours from green tamarisks blown, / Float to my soul and in my senses throng, / And mingle vaguely with the sailor's song.