In the afternoon they came unto a land In which it seemed always afternoon. - Alfred Tennyson

The Sea-fairies

Slow sail'd the weary mariners and saw,
Betwixt the green brink and the running foam, Sweet faces, rounded arms, and bosoms prest To little harps of gold; and while they mused, Whispering to each other half in fear,
Shrill music reach'd them on the middle sea.

Never comes the trader, never floats an European flag, — Slides the bird o’er lustrous woodland, swings the trailer from the crag, — Droops the heavy-blossomed bower, hangs the heavy-fruited tree, — Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres of sea.

Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears but bitter fruit? I will pluck it from my bosom, tho' my heart be at the root