Islands
C
Cicely Fox Smith
0
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When the days of creation
Were all but done,
And earth lay drowsing
Under the sun -
Forest and desert
Aching and vast,
Rivers unforded,
Ranges unpassed -
Yet, ere the sunset
Faded to night,
The Lord wrought islands
For man's delight.
Flung them, a skein
On the sea's calm breast,
Set them, a ledge
For the sea-bird's nest;
Ringed them with coral,
Crowned them with palm,
Bade them be singing
Their endless psalm;
Wreathed them with mist-wrack,
Crested with cloud,
Fronting the sunsets,
Royally browed.
Virginal, nameless,
Lone in the sea,
Waiting the voyagers
Yet to be -
Tawny as lions,
Or fleeced like sheep,
Sleek as a whale's back
Cleaving the deep,
Sea-swept skerries
And sun-drenched cays . . .
The Lord wrought islands
For which be praise!
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