There was a King of Thule br Whom a Witch-wife stole at birth; br In a country known but newly, br All under the dumb, huge Earth. br br That King's in a Forest toiling; br And he never the green sward delves br But he sees all his green waves boiling br Over his sands and shelves; br br In these sunsets vast and fiery, br In these dawns divine he sees br Hy-Brasil, Mannan and Eire, br And the Isle of Appletrees; br br He watches, heart-still and breathless, br The clouds through the deep day trailing, br As the white-winged vessels gathered, br Into his harbours sailing; br br Ranked Ibis and lazy Eagles br In the great blue flame may rise, br But ne'er Sea-mew or Solan beating br Up through their grey low skies; br br When the storm-led fires are breaking, br Great waves of the molten night, br Deep in his eyes comes aching br The icy Boreal Light.