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A of deathful sleep, where fitful dreams
 * Of hurrying spring scarce wake swift fading flowers;

A land of fleckless sky, and sheer-shed beams
 * Of sun and stars through day's and dark’s slow hours,

A land where sand has choked once fluent streams—
 * Where grassless plains lie girt by granite towers

That fright the swift and heaven-nurtured teams
 * Of winds that bear afar the sea-gleaned showers.

The wild Atlantic, fretted by the breath
 * Of fiery gales o’er leagues of desert sped,

Rolls back, and wreaks in surf its thunderous wrath
 * On rocks that down the wan, wide shore are spread;

The waves for ever roar a song of death,
 * The shore they roar to is for ever dead.

W.C. Scully.