Miyajima

All paths lead upward to the sky In this green isle, which mounts on high Through slumbrous valleys, veiled in light From waters dancing blue and bright. And on those leafy paths appear Delicately stepping deer That move in wild and silent grace, The very spirits of the place. Whether by old pine--roots they stand Or print small hoof--marks on sea--sand, Their liquid eyes, their gentle tread, Are innocent of human dread. Beneath the ancient boughs they seem Strayed from the memory or the dream Or hope of man, the Golden Age, His unrecovered heritage. This sacred isle has banished death; And yet I would that my last breath Might amid ocean--murmur cease On such an isle, in such a peace.