Greece

The sea was sapphire coloured, and the sky

Burned like a heated opal through the air;

We hoisted sail; the wind was blowing fair

For the blue lands that to the eastward lie.

From the steep prow I marked with quickening eye

Zakynthos, every olive grove and creek

Ithaca's cliff, Lycaon's snowy peak

And all the flower-strewn hills of Arcady.