On Chagóla the air was full of butterflies,
They fluttered down the valleys of bright blue;
White they were, snow-tinted, soft as the soft sea-foam
That far inland breaks in mysterious bloom:

Invisibly, as Spring lapping dark hills,
It breaks into a billow pale as snow;
From Chagóla there rolls a shadowy tide
Of harebells, drops of brightly quivering blue.

The sky it had not rained its azure down
But hoarded still its deep soft purple air;
A glacier shone, a cold, a cold white bride
From some dark home of earth there raptly flown:

O Chagóla, Chagóla, come! descend!
Into the lowlands, the dark and windy plains
Where my house is, my fireside and my home,
My harbour and the net about my soul!