Classic Poem

I know an isle, an island fair and pleasant,
A fairer than this island never blossomed in the sea;
And ever to my eye is that green island present,
Ever present as a thing in clearest sight might be,
With its flowers, with its rills, with its clear and living fountain;
O ne'er so fair as this, did sea-embosomed mountain
Flower in its island-top above the sapphire sea.

And with the wind my spirit round it, round it hovers,
With the wind that dare not touch it for its beauty,
And we sigh evermore, and evermore like lovers,
And my spirit dare not touch it, for the sacred spell of duty —
Though it hovers near and nearer and around that island sweet,
For its awe of holy breathings, dare not touch it with its feet,
And the wind it dare not touch it for its beauty.

For if my spirit stoop to touch it with its feet,
Rise solemn voices with sighs and plaining,
And they shriek beware! and my ears with threatenings greet,
With the words beware, beware, my affrighted spirit paining:
Touch that island say these voices — voices sad, disconsolate,
And lo an island-desert, a desert black and desolate;
Thus shriek the voices, and disturb my soul with plaining.

So with the wind my spirit round it, round it hovers,
Swinging in the wind and still clinging to the shore,
And we sigh evermore, and evermore like lovers,
Though my spirit it may touch it with its feet nevermore,
Or in the sea below if it seek the isle to lave,
'Tis withheld by the spell that works in wind and wave;
Only sometimes with its strivings it throws pearls upon the shore.