An isle where never cares betide; Where solitude comes not, and where The soul is ever satisfied. An isle where skies are ever fair, Where men keep never date nor day, Where Time has thrown his glass away. This isle is all their own. No more The flight by day, the watch by night. Dark Ina twines about the door The scarlet blooms, the blossoms white, And winds red berries in her hair, And never knows the name of care. She has a thousand birds; they blow In rainbow clouds, in clouds of snow; The birds take berries from her hand; They come and go at her command. She has a thousand pretty birds, That sing her summer songs all day; Small black-hoofed antelope in herds, And squirrels bushy-tail'd and gray, With round and sparkling eyes of pink, And cunning-faced as you can think. She has a thousand busy birds; And is she happy in her isle, With all her feathered friends and herds? For when has Morgan seen her smile? She has a thousand cunning birds, They would build nestings in her hair; She has brown antelope in herds; She never knows the name of care; Why then is she not happy there? All patiently she bears her part; She has a thousand birdlings there, These birds they would build in her hair; But not one bird builds in her heart. She has a thousand birds; yet she Would give ten thousand cheerfully, All bright of plume and loud of tongue, And sweet as ever trilled or sung, For one small fluttered bird to come And sit within her heart, though dumb. She has a thousand birds; yet one Is lost, and, lo! she is undone. She sighs sometimes. She looks away, And yet she does not weep or say. She has a thousand birds. The skies Are fashioned for her paradise; A very queen of fairy land, With all earth's fruitage at command, And yet she does not lift her eyes. She sits upon the water's brink As mournful soul'd as you can think. She has a thousand birds; and yet She will look downward, nor forget The fluttered white-winged turtle dove, The changeful-throated birdling, love, That came, that sang through tropic trees, Then flew for aye across the seas. The waters kiss her feet; above Her head the trees are blossoming, And fragrant with eternal spring. Her birds, her antelope are there, Her birds they would build in her hair; She only waits her birdling, love. She turns, she looks along the plain, Imploring love to come again. Cambridge: Press of John Wilson & Son. End of Project Gutenberg's The Ship in the Desert, by Joaquin Miller