For, ever as I turned the magic page Of that old song the old, blind singer sang Unto the world, when it and song were young-- The ripple of the reeds, or odorous, Soft sigh of leaves, or voice of the far sea-- A mystical, low murmur, tremulous Upon the wind, came in with musk of rose, The salt breath of the waves, and far, faint smell Of laurel up the slopes of Tamalpais. . . . "Am I less fair, am I less fair than these, Daughters of far-off seas? Daughters of far-off shores,--bleak, over-blown With foam of fretful tides, with wail and moan Of waves, that toss wild hands, that clasp and beat Wild, desolate hands above the lonely sands, Printed no more with pressure of their feet: That chase no more the light feet flying swift Up golden sands, nor lift Foam fingers white unto their garment hem, And flowing hair of them. "For these are dead: the fair, great queens are dead! The long hair's gold a dust the wind bloweth Wherever it may list; The curvëd lips, that kissed Heroes and kings of men, a dust that breath, Nor speech, nor laughter, ever quickeneth; And all the glory sped From the large, marvelous eyes, the light whereof Wrought wonder in their hearts,--desire, and love! And wrought not any good: But strife, and curses of the gods, and flood, And fire and battle-death! Am I less fair, less fair, Because that my hands bear Neither a sword, nor any flaming brand, To blacken and make desolate my land, But on my brows are leaves of olive boughs, And in mine arms a dove! "Sea-born and goddess, blossom of the foam, Pale Aphrodite, shadowy as a mist Not any sun hath kissed! Tawny of limb I roam, The dusks of forests dark within my hair; The far Yosemite, For garment and for covering of me, Wove the white foam and mist, The amber and the rose and amethyst Of her wild fountains, shaken loose in air. And I am of the hills and of the sea: Strong with the strength of my great hills, and calm With calm of the fair sea, whose billowy gold Girdles the land whose queen and love I am! Lo! am I less than thou, That with a sound of lyres, and harp-playing, Not any voice doth sing The beauty of mine eyelids and my brow? Nor hymn in all my fair and gracious ways, And lengths of golden days, The measure and the music of my praise?