O that land where the suns linger
And the passion-flowers grow
Is the land for me the Singer:
There I made me, years ago,

Many a golden habitation,
Full of things most fair to see;
And the fond imagination
Of my heart dwells there with me.

Now, farewell, all shameful sorrow!
Farewell, troublous world of men!
I shall meet you on some morrow,
But forget you quite till then.