180
FOUR SONGS OF FOUR SEASONS.
And far to the fair south‑westward lightens,
Girdled and sandalled and plumed with flowers,
At sunset over the love‑lit lands,
The hill‑side's crown where the wild hill brightens,
Saint Fina's town of the Beautiful Towers,
Hailing the sun with a hundred hands.
Land of us all that have loved thee dearliest,
Mother of men that were lords of man,
Whose name in the world's heart works as a spell,
My last song's light, and the star of mine earliest,
As we turn from thee, sweet, who wast ours for a span,
Fare well we may not who say farewell.
