Hy-Brasail.
Reading edition
Near where Horn its dark head Rears o’er the deep ocean, And the sea-birds whirl round In a constant commotion, Where loving Atlantic Outstretches its arms, Four islands romantic Lie, lost in their charms. The farthest is Tory, Rough, rocky and stern, Inishbeg, Inishbofin, Inishdoe, as you turn Your rapt gaze to the west, Orange, rose-red, or grey, Stretch, three islands at rest In the calm of the bay. And beyond them, most blest Of a realm without guile, In the sunshine and rest Lies Hy-Brasail, the isle Of the angels and saints, So lovely and dim, Where the sea’s white foam breaks On its far distant rim. The peasant who heard of This wonderful isle Set sail to the west With a confident smile. The dream of Hy-Brasail Within his heart burned, He was lost in the sea And never returned. Londonderry, September 10, 1913.