But for hours upon hours

As a thrall she remains

Spell-bound as with flowers

And content in their chains,

And her loud steeds fret not, and lift not a lock of their deep white manes;

Then only, far under

In the depths of her hold,

Some gleam of its wonder

Man's eye may behold,

Its wild-weed forests of crimson and russet and olive and gold.

Still deeper and dimmer

And goodlier they glow

For the eyes of the swimmer

Who scans them below

As he crosses the zone of their flowerage that knows not of sunshine and snow.

Soft blossomless frondage

And foliage that gleams

As to prisoners in bondage

The light of their dreams,

The desire of a dawn unbeholden, with hope on the wings of its beams.

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