A land of deathful sleep, where fitful dreams 



Of hurrying Spring scarce wake swift-fading flowers ; 

 A land of feckless sky and sheer-shed beams 



Of sun and stars through day's and dark 's slow hours; 

 A land where dust has choked once-fluent streams — 



Where grassless plains lie girt by granite towers 

 That fright the swift and heaven-nurtured teams 



Of winds that guide afar the sea-gleaned showers. 



The wild Atlantic, fretted by the breath 



Of fiery gales o'er leagues of desert sped. 

 Rolls back and wreaks in surf its thunderous zurath 



On rocks that down the wan, wide shore are spread. 

 The waves for ever roar a song of death; 



The land they roar to is for ever dead. 



