There dwells a goddess in the West,

An Island in death-lonesome seas;

No towered towns are hers confessed,

No castled forts or palaces;

Hers, simple worshipers at best,

The buds, the birds, the bees.

And she hath wonder-words of song,

So heavenly beautiful and shed

So sweetly from her honeyed tongue,

The savage creatures, it is said,

Hark, marble-still, their wilds among,

And nightingales fall dead.

I know her not, nor have I known:

I only feel that she is there:

Then fain am I to sing and sing,

And then again to fly and fly,

Beyond the flight of cloud or wing,

Far under azure arcs of sky;

My love at her chaste feet to fling,

Behold her face and—die.