The sea was sapphire coloured, and the sky 
Burned like a heated opal through the air; 
We hoisted sail; the wind was blowing fair 
For the blue lands that to the eastward lie. 
From the steep prow I marked with quickening eye 
Zakynthos, every olive grove and creek, 
Ithaca's cliff, Lycaon's snowy peak, 
And all the flower-strewn hills of Arcady. 
The flapping of the sail against the mast, 
The ripple of the water on the side, 
The ripple of girls' laughter at the stern, 
The only sounds:- when 'gan the West to burn, 
And a red sun upon the seas to ride, 
I stood upon the soil of Greece at last! 


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Return to the Oscar Wilde library , or . . . Read the next poem; Magdalen Walks

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