  Snaring lights surmount the sand-dunes of the Salamander Isles; The chime buoys chant new tunes each tide, false soundings run for miles. And yet, for lures like these we set such sail as we could make; We steered by stars that sorrowed, with the moonlight in our wake. We dipped or rose supremely as we shook our freeboard clear; We clung, but smiled serenely when the head seas swept our gear. We were captives of the currents, we were harried by the flaw, Or the red mists from the marshes mocked the navigator’s law. Glimpsed we evanescent channels, marked by flares upon a wreck, But the channels shoaled to shallows ere the tops could hail the deck. Yet we won to realization that the ports long sought in vain, Were illusive as the May moths or the madrigals of Spain; And that only charts from China, drawn by wizards full of wiles, Would give the proper bearings for the Salamander Isles. |
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